His forehead drops down to my shoulder, and I have just enough energy to bring my hands up to frame his face and tug him back to me. We kiss as his body trembles and jerks with his climax. Then he collapses on top of me, his chest heaving.
“Holy fuck,” he mumbles.
I laugh weakly and kiss the top of his head. “Mm-hmm.”
“Mmm, don’t laugh at me.” He pokes me in the side, and I flinch and laugh again, which makes him grunt. “That feels so weird when I’m still inside you.”
I purse my lips together, trying not to laugh this time. “I know what you mean.”
“Mmm, yeah, you would.”
I can feel his dick softening inside me, but I know he doesn’t like to move right away. He likes to stay just like this for a while, still connected and close as we catch our breaths. I don’t blame him. I think it’s kind of perfect, too.
I close my eyes as his fingers thread up into my hair, stroking me gently, and I do the same, letting my hands slide lazily up and down his back.
With a happy, content hum that makes me smile, he pushes up onto his elbows and stares down at me. His eyes are full of love, and even though it’s something I’ve grown used to seeing, it still makes my stomach swoop and my heart stutter. I reach up and brush his hair off his forehead, but it just falls right back down. He laughs quietly, then smiles and lowers his mouth to mine for a soft kiss.
Together, we get up, go to the bathroom to clean up, and then get dressed—me back in the clothes I was wearing earlier and him in the first T-shirt and joggers he pulls out of the basket of clean laundry sitting near the closet. The shirt is mine—a burgundy Stanford shirt that’s a size too big on him—and when I arch my eyebrows at him as he tugs the shirt into place, he just shrugs.
“We should probably fold the laundry,” he says with a smirk.
“Eh. Maybe.” I grin back at him and reach out my hand. He takes it and comes willingly into my arms, resting his head against my chest. I press a kiss into his hair. “So, what’s the news you had that depends on us staying here?”
“Mmm, well...” He straightens up and pulls back, lifting his chin. His eyes are sparkling with enthusiasm again, and his smile... god, it’s perfect and beautiful.
My fingers lift up and run along his cheek. “Tell me,” I insist.
He drops his eyes with a nod and then pulls away. I stand there and watch as he walks the few steps over to the kitchenette, opens the junk drawer, and digs through the mess until he pulls out a business card. He pauses and stares down at it, nervousness flickering across his expression. Then he turns to me and offers me the card.
It’s sleek and black, with a simple logo at the top readsBay Area Art Conservation LLC. Underneath is a woman’s name—Greta Hoffmann—and contact information. The address is up in Menlo Park, just north of Palo Alto.
“What’s this?” I look back up at Nico.
His expression is almost a cautious sort of hopeful now, and he takes a deep breath and says, “Vera introduced me to this woman last week. She came into the gallery. I’ve seen her at a few events that Vera’s hosted. She, um, she has an opening for an art conservator apprentice at her studio, and Vera thinks it might be a good fit for me.”
My brain isn’t really processing everything he’s trying to say, and I shake my head a little. “Huh? What? I thought you like your job, don’t you?”
He nods quickly. “I do. It took me a while to get used to everything that first year, I’m sure you remember. But I do like it, and I’m good at it. It’s comfortable now, I guess.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I say softly. “Getting used to working around people you don’t know wasn’t easy. You really worked hard for it. And I know we’re in a good position financially now, with my financial aid from school helping to pay the rent here the last couple of years. So, uh, I guess I just didn’t think you were lookingfor a change?”
He shrugs. “I’m not, really. But, um, you know, I’ve just been thinking about what I want to do long-term...” He shakes his head a little, and my stomach drops as some of that light in his eyes dims. “Yeah, it’s a dumb idea, isn’t it? Sorry, I—”
“No, wait, wait,” I cut in, lifting my hands to rest on his upper arms. “I didn’t say that. I just don’t understand. What’s the offer? And are you interested?”
He lifts his eyes and holds my gaze for several seconds. Then the corners of his lips twitch up into a tentative smile, and he nods. “Yeah, um, I think I am interested.”
“Okay, okay.” I pull him into a tight hug and kiss his cheek. “Tell me all about it, then. I want to know how we can make it happen.”
“Really?” he asks, wrapping his arms around my midsection. When I nod, he lets out a short breath and then looks up at me. “Okay, so...”
Together, we sit at the kitchen table, and he starts talking as he pulls out his laptop and opens up the website for Bay Area Art Conservation LLC. He tells me all about Greta and her business, what art conservators do and how the apprenticeship would work. It would be a lot, he says, almost like he’d be going to school full-timeandstill working for Vera full-time, putting in hours on the weekends and some weekday mornings in Menlo Park, then coming back to San Jose for his regular job. Since he wouldn’t be getting an advanced degree, like most art conservators, he’d have to learn everything during the apprenticeship and on his own. Probably by the time I finished with my PhD in five or six years would be about when he’d have enough training and experience to start his own career, either at Greta’s company or elsewhere.
His own career.
When he pauses after telling me that, I let out a sharp breath, scoot my chair closer to his, and pull him into another tight hug. “Nico...”
“I-I dunno,” he mumbles against my chest, shaking his head. “I mean, it honestly sounds really cool and like an actual career, not just a job. It’ll be a lot of work, and there’s a lot to learn, but I think I could do it. Vera thinks so too.”
