I crouch, gathering the rose with care. Somehow this flower survived the pressure of an automated door.
A resilient little thing.
I bring the bloom to my nose. The petals carry a lovely freshness, as well as a bit of Idris’ scent.
He clears his throat behind the door, and I realizeI’ve drifted due to distraction again.
With a push from my foot, the door slides fully open. And I see that he’s on my bed, barenaked, and lying on his side, with one knee bent to draw the eye to the thick line of his rather impressive shaft.
He looks freshly washed, which was unnecessary, since we showered together this morning.
There’s also a rose between his teeth. And beside my bed is a vase of roses on my nightstand.
My lips tug upwards, while he stays posed and waiting, smiling warmly around the stem.
I place the slightly withered rose in the vase, studying him as I step closer and admire the man in my bed.
Idris has the type of symmetry found in ancient statuary. Strong jaw, straight nose, defined lines. Skin tone similar to polished bronze under the dim lighting of my room. His proportions are lean and balanced, resembling the preserved portraits of Egyptian royalty.
“Em,” he says around the stem. “I took the liberty of warming your bed.”
“You assumed it needed warming,” I say as I set my tablet down.
He pulls the rose from his mouth, still smiling. “You’re right. Let’s fix that. Em, may I please warm your bed tonight?”
“Youmayattempt.”
His smile stretches. I feel myself relax at the mixed scents of him and roses.
I predict his next breath before it comes. We’ve grown attuned to each other since New Year’s Eve, the night we added benefits to the clause of our friendship.
“You’re beautiful, Em,” he says, drawing me into his arms. “You take my breath away.”
“You don’t have to be romantic,” I say evenly. “It’s not required for physical release.”
His gaze searches my face. I’m too tired to interpret the layers. But this is Idris. I don’t mind his searching. I trust him.
My lashes flutter as his lips skim across my skin. He laughs under his breath. “For fuck’s sake, Em. One day, I’ll make you admit I mean more to you than serotonin.”
“Mm,” I murmur, “Don’t forget dopamine, oxytocin—”
“—endorphins and prolactin,” he finishes for me. “I know, Em. I was just making a joke.”
“I might be too tired to recognize humor,” I whisper, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Let me get straight to the point, Idris. Undress me.”
His smile deepens. Clothes fall away swiftly. He lowers me onto the bed. His body hovers over mine, and his thigh slides between my legs at a familiar angle.
When I kiss him, he hastily returns it with the certainty of a man who has been waiting all day.
He props himself on an elbow, his hand moving down my thigh.
With a groan, he slides between my legs, gentle at first, then firmer when he feels how wet and ready I am for him.
He doesn’t rush once he’s inside me. He studies my face, lingering on my hooded eyes, and reads my breath. He matches the roll of my hips, and eases at the feel of my tightening thighs.
Pressure adjusts when needed. My body opens for him, taking him in as deep as I can. And even after months of doing this, he still gasps whenever I move my hips faster.
His lips follow the curve of my cheek. “This feels so right,” he whispers.
