“Nick?” Mads studied me, a question in his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to do this, right? I’m more than happy?—”
“Yes, I do.” I wrapped my hands around his face and kissed him hard. “There’s nothing I want more right now than to be buried inside you.”
A huge smile formed against my lips. “I detect a seismic shift in the Fisher-Church universe.”
I chuckled and kissed him again. “Nine point five on the Richter scale, give or take. Initial assessments suggest a significant release of pressure but with no apparent damage.”
Mads leaned back just enough to lock gazes and nodded sagely. “I see. Sounds... intriguing. Should I buckle up for the ride or clutch my pearls and think of England?” He waggled his brows and did a thing with his hips that jerked his cock and had my own paying attention.
“You were saying?” He reached for me, his warm hand closing around my cock. He began to stroke, adding that signature Mads twist on the upstroke that rendered me almost speechless, every time.
I treated Mads to one of my best eye rolls. “You know damn well I can’t think when you do that.”
His grin grew wider, if that was even possible. “You haven’t answered my question yet. Theoh shitbar or my pearls.”
I shot him a look. “You do remember the part where it’s me topping you this time, right?”
He shrugged and kept stroking. “Topping, schmopping. That’s just a question of whosewhatgoes into whosewhere. Nothing to do with who is actually calling the shots.”
I snorted. “Clearly. But not this time, Mister Control Freak.” I grabbed his hand before I came to a quick and embarrassingend. “This time we’re doing it my way.” I headed for the bedroom, taking Mads with me.
“But I made the bed,” he protested weakly.
I sent a look over my shoulder that needed no interpretation. And he laughed.
“Fine. Have it your way. But you do realise that as delightful as this turn of events is, I haven’t exactlypreparedfor it, and those were clean sheets yesterday.”
I swallowed a smile. The man was too cute for words. “You talk too much” was my only response other than making a pit stop at the laundry to grab a few old car detailing towels and a fresh tube of lube from our supplies.
Mads took one look at the towels and broke into a smile. “What? You gonna buff my panels? Maybe polish my headlights? Clean out my exhaust?”
“Jesus Christ.” I gave him a shove down the hall toward his studio and his laughter faltered.
“Where are you—? Oh no! No, no, no.” Mads spun to face me, clearly scandalised. “You can’t possibly be planning to fuck me in there.”
I leaned in and put my lips to his ear. “You have an old, comfortable, and very large couch in there.”
His eyes narrowed. “I believe you’re referring to our official officebreakcouch.” He raised an eyebrow in judgement.
I reached out a finger and pushed it back down. “Your glasses are in there too, correct? The black-rimmed ones that almost make me come on the spot?”
That made him smile and he brought our lips within kissing distance. “This is very true.”
I nipped him on the nose. “Plus, you can see that couch from your workbench. You can think about what we did on it. You can remember. Feel. Be... inspired.”
A strangled sound broke from Mads’ lips. “Damn you.”
I grinned, sensing victory in the bag. “So, yes, baby, I’m gonna fuck you in your studio, on that couch, while you’re wearing those sexy black glasses, and nothing else. And you’re going to be reminded of it every single day when you sit at your desk.”
Mads’ cheeks burned rosy red. “I suppose... when you say it like that... I can see the appeal.” He punched the code into the alarm pad like his fingers were on fire and yanked me into the dark interior. See above note re the man being bossy as shit.
Oh yeah, this had fun written all over it.
Stepping into Mads’ studio was always a treat. I took a second to breathe in the familiar aroma of paper, leather, glue, and history. I’d watched Mads work many times. It was like watching a lover touch the object of their desire. There was a relationship between a conservator and the book they worked on. A contract of sorts. A promise. Mads once said that the best book conservators were like sculptors. They saw the true form within the material and worked to expose it while safeguarding the story of its journey.
This time it would be our form together and our story.
Mads dimmed the lights and made a beeline for the extra-large couch he’d salvaged from a second-hand store not long before we’d met. You could fit two people side by side with room to spare, and I intended to use every last centimetre of it.
