“Yes,” he said. “Very much.”
I hummed, brushing back a clump of wet hair from his forehead. Neither of us said much after that, but Smith held my stare and it was so nice to just look at him. To be with him like that. It had been so very long since I had allowed myself that kind of intimacy.
“It’s the way you look at me, I think,” he said later. “Can I have some more water, please?”
An unanticipated burst of heat flared somewhere inside of me, and I lifted the glass again to Smith’s mouth for him to drink. He held my stare the whole time, another quick jerk of his chin to let me know he’d had enough. I returned the glass to the table.
“You can have anything you want,” I admitted.
“I just want you.”
Brushing my fingers against Smith’s cheek, I leaned in close enough that our noses brushed, our breath mixed. His lashes fluttered and he angled himself toward me, his entire body coming closer to mine with every exhale.
“I’m yours,” I told him and I meant it.
Smith, bless him, didn’t try to kiss me. He sat in that comfortable—if not complicated—space where we existed together with nothing more. I knew it was him being respectful of my asexuality, but I never wanted him to feel like he couldn’t ask for the things he wanted with me—or the things he needed. Our physical preferences might not always align, but there was no world where I would ever deprive Smith Covington of his pleasure.
“I like kissing you,” I told him, our lips so close that I spoke the words right into his mouth.
“Is that you asking to be kissed?” Smith grinned, eyes hooded.
“It’s me telling you that you don’t have to ask. It’s not a limit for me.”
He licked his lips, tongue dragging across mine as he did. I made a soft sound at the tease, and Smith didn’t hesitate after that. He took the invitation at face value, crashing his mouth against mine with so much force it knocked me over completely. Smith licked into my mouth, kissing me like he was hungry and desperate for it, like he hadn’t just come all over my leg in the bedroom with an inflatable plug shoved up his ass. I settled my hands over his hips, moving him into a better position and chuckling as he groaned and ground his body down against mine.
“Do you have limits?”
Smith sat up straight, fingers steepled against my stomach.
“I don’t bottom,” I told him with a crooked smile.
His nostrils flared. “Do you top?”
“Are you asking if I’ll fuck you with my cock?”
Smith’s jaw went slack, his cheeks burning a very endearing shade of pink. “I mean…”
“I haven’t in a very long time,” I admitted. “I’m not repulsed or averse to it, but there’s other ways I prefer to pleasure you.”
“I noticed.” He blinked slowly, tired. One of his hands left my stomach and moved to his, a soft dusting of his own knuckles against his skin before he let his hand fall to his half-hard cock.
“Is that okay?”
“More than.”
“Do you need to come again, baby?” I lifted my body from the couch, pressed into him.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to?” I asked.
“Not necessarily.” He stroked himself slowly, a loose and lazy overhanded grip.
“Good.”
The conversation died again as Smith touched himself. I folded one arm back behind my head, content to watch him bring himself pleasure. I studied him, rapt as he brought himself near the edge without ever getting close enough for an orgasm to be on the table. It must have been a slow kind of torture, judging by the sweat beading on his temples and the tremor in his legs.
“You’re so gorgeous like this,” I whispered, sliding my hands up his thighs. “So perfect.”
