Owen huffed, but didn’t otherwise object. He wiggled into a comfortable position at Crawford’s side, and Crawford praised his obedience by strokinghishair.
“I don’t know if I snore or not,”Owensaid.
“I don’t care if you do.” Crawford turned off the light and closed his eyes. “I don’t, or so I’ve been told. If that’s untrue and I bother you, wake me up. Iwon’tmind.”
“So you’re not one of those grumpy sleepers?” Owen chuckled. “My mom used to throw punches when someone tried to wake her. It uh, well, it taught me to bedelicatein themorning.”
Crawford grinned. “I won’t say I’ll never throw a punch in my sleep, but so far I don’t thinkIhave.”
“Good.” Owen yawned and fluffed one of his pillows. “Because I can’t guarantee that I haven’t inherited it. I wouldn’t want us to box in oursleep.”
After sex, Crawford glowed. It was nothing unusual. Subspace wasn’t just for subs—the pleasure he received from play sessions left him in good spirits for days—but he wasn’tjustglowing from the thrill of their encounter. To have Owen in his bed, to have his collar on the nightstand, and to see the pleasure on his face lifted Crawford’s spirits likenothingelse.
How could one inexperienced submissive move himlikethis?
“Goodnight, Owen,” Crawford said after a long pause lapsed between them. He kissed Owen’s forehead, then rested his head and closedhiseyes.
“Goodnight, Crawford,” Owenwhisperedback.
It was the first time a man wore his collar. It was the first time a man shared his bed. At thirty-two years old, Crawford was finally happy. There was no more time to waste. In the morning he’d broach the topic of making what they hadserious.
Now that he’d found the one he wanted, he wouldn’t lethimgo.
16
Owen
Not even a strangebed could disrupt Owen’s sleep. It wasn’t until the body beside him stirred that Owen woke, and by then the room was bathed in light. It had tobelate.
The night before had been fantastic—Owen’s body was still buzzing from the high. The master and slave dynamic was hotter than he cared to admit. Owen wouldn’t ever budge on his belief that omegas deserved equality, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with the dynamic. Play was different than reality. Crawford was too progressive to ever think that what they did in the bedroom would transcribe toreallife.
A standard of respect like that made Owen want more. More of their connection. More of Crawford. More ofeverything.
“Good morning,” Crawford said with a yawn. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed the covers back. His body hadn’t been a dream. Owen let himself drink it in, savoring Crawford’s developed core. Crawford was trim and muscular without being too large or broad. To Owen, who’d never been a fan of overly muscular alphas to begin with, it was a dreamcometrue.
“Morning,” Owen said. “Do you have anything forbreakfast?”
“No, but I can probably get something ready for lunch. By the time I’m done cooking, it’llbenoon.”
“Mmph.” Owen rolled over and flopped back on the bed so he was staring at the ceiling. “It’s that latealready?”
“You kept us up late last night,”Crawfordsaid.
Owen shot him a look. “Ikept usuplate?”
“I seem to recall a certain someone insisted on bouncing on my dickuntil—”
“Okay, you made your point.” Owen’s cheeks heated. “So maybe it was me.Still.”
Crawford pressed a kiss to his temple. “It doesn’t matter. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. In fact, I was hoping we might talk a little bit more about that afterlunch.”
Owen looked over as Crawford rose from the bed. Crawford’s dark hair stuck up at strange angles, like he’d been caught in a windstorm. It was cute. Nude, Owen watched as Crawford’s muscles worked beneath his skin, fluid and stunning. There was confidence in Crawford’s posture that hadn’t been there before, and it made him all the more radiant. Owen couldn’tlookaway.
He tugged the blankets up around his shoulders and watched as Crawford made his way across the room. On his way out the door, Crawford snagged a bathrobe and slipped into it. Owen mourned the loss of Crawford’s bare body, but understood why it was necessary. Crawford’s penthouse was almost all window—likely tinted from the outside and so far up that it didn’t matter, but windowednevertheless.
Or maybe, more likely, Crawford anticipated cooking something that would spit at him and burn him. Nude cooking wasneverfun.
“We could talk now,” Owen said before Crawford had a chance to slip through the door. “Idon’tmind.”
