“I have no intention of ever dating anyone else. You’re it for me. So doesn’t that make me gay?”
He drags me the last inch with a hand curled around my hip, bringing us together properly. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“I’m in love with you. I’m intoyou.And you’re a guy.” The logic’s pretty sound to me.
“It doesn’t erase the other parts of you, Spence.” He tips my head up and kisses me softly, lips lingering. “You’re complicated, and that’s alright.”
“We should get married.”
Kendrick’s smile falters. “We should what?”
“Get married.” I hadn’t meant to say it, but now that I have, I can’t put it back. We absolutely fucking should. There’s literally not a single reason why we shouldn’t. Not one. “You’re mine in every way, Ken. If we get married, you’d be mine legally too.” Damn. Nowthatis the best idea I’ve ever had. Why didn’t I think of it before?
“I think you’re still drunk.”
“I’m completely sober.” There’s only the barest hint of a headache left, in fact. He doesn’t get to use that as a reason to dismiss me. Or this brilliant-as-fuck idea.
“We’re not getting married. Turn around so I can wash your back.”
After getting into the position that he wants me, I crane my head around so I can see him. “Why not?”
“I don’t—because it doesn’t make any sense. Is there something wrong with how things are?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Wanting to marry him doesn’t mean something else is lacking. That’s stupid logic.
He presses our cheeks together, and my eyes close, breath leaving me. He feels so good against me, his stubble scratching pleasantly on my skin. We’re roughly the same size, though he’s got more muscle definition than me. Yet when we’re like this, I feel small, safe, protected. Like he’ll keep all the demons at bay. I know he will.
“We don’t need to get married, Spence. You own me; a piece of paper isn’t necessary for that to be fact.”
“It’s more than that. I wantto.” Want is such an inadequate word for how I feel right now. “This isn’t about some weird sense of obligation. I’ll take your last name, don’t worry.” Damn, that sounds good.Spencer Fischer.It almost rhymes. I have to have it now.
His hand flexes on my hip. “That’s not really the issue here.” He likes the idea, though; I can tell.
“Let’s get married,” I insist. The idea of him wearing my ring, a visible mark of ownership, is obscenely visceral. If I had one ready, I’d make him put it on right now. Proudly display it for everyone to see.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Whichever one makes you say yes.”
“The ‘asking me’ option is probably the approach here, then.”
He still thinks I’m joking. I can see it in his eyes when I turn around. He has no idea just how serious I am. I kiss him first, those lips beckoning to me. He clasps my neck, leaning into it. I keep it short because I have an important task.
Kissing my way down his chest, I lick the droplets of water running down his hard muscles and then lower myself to thetiles. A little unforgiving on my knees, but it’s whatever. Maybe we can look at getting a shower mat or something.
“What are you doing?” he asks in a strangled voice that sends a tingle of pleasure through me. I like pleasing him, making him feel like this, getting him riled up for me.
I might have answered him, but his cock distracts me, and I forget to. He’s hard now, jutting up like he’s trying to reach for me. I’ve had it in my hand, felt it in my palm. What does it taste like? I read somewhere that it can depend on a man’s diet. I can’t remember the specifics, though, so I have no idea what that means in reference to Kendrick. Only one way to find out.
“Spence?”
“Mmm?”
“Get up. You’re being ridiculous.”
I’m not, and I quite like it down here. I wrap my hand around his shaft and give an experimental tug. He moans, spurring me on. I flick my tongue against the tip, and Kendrick slaps a hand on the tiled wall behind me, his knees buckling, legs shaking. Damn, that’s hot.
“Spence, stop it.”
