He sits up, the tip of his length brushing hot against my palm. He’s face-to-face with me in the darkness. His hand glides down my arm, a brush of tempting warmth.
“I want you,” I murmur. “But I have a condition first.”
He gives a faint chuckle. “Of course you do.”
“When you’re with me, there is no one else,” I tell him. “Every him, her, or they you’ve ever had—every pronoun, every gender, every body, every kiss, everyone you’ve come on, in, or under—they don’t exist.” I take a breath, placing my hands on his chest. “Right now, there’s only me. Right now, you’re mine.”
“Yours,” he echoes. “And if I want that to change, I’ll tell you first.”
“Same,” I reply.
We hesitate, light exhales blending between our parted lips. Waiting. Sensing the significance of the moment.
He and I just became—something. Not boyfriend and girlfriend exactly—the wordboyfriendseems too common and casual for the way I feel about him. It’s not messy enough. We need a word that’s wretched and confusing and wild and visceral and heartbreakingly tender.
Exclusive. That will do until I think of something else.
Dorian Gray is mine alone. For now.
For tonight.
20
Baz
Dorian’s hand glides beneath my hair, cupping my neck as he kisses me languidly, tenderly. His tongue teases between my lips, flicking through my mouth. A tiny, bright tingle of electric need sparks through my clit in response.
“I don’t know how verbal you were with the others you fucked,” he murmurs, “but I want you to tell me everything. If anything doesn’t feel good to you, if anything throws you out of the moment, don’t keep it inside. Say it.” His hand closes lightly around my throat, right beneath my chin, and he traces my lower lip with his tongue. “How do you feel about this?”
“Good,” I whisper.
“You like it when I take control of you?”
Sucking in a quick breath, I nod.
“I’m a switch, love. Do you know what that means?”
“Um…you like being dominant or submissive? Depending on the person or your mood?”
“Very good. I get the feeling you’re a switch, too. That you’d like having me helpless and submissive at your feet.”
“Making the lovely and talented Dorian Gray crawl?” I say wryly. “Hell yes, I’d love that.”
“And I will crawl for you, Baz,” he says. “But not tonight.”
He takes my silky pajama shirt and lifts it. When I raise my arms obediently, he pulls it all the way off before framing my body with his hands, cupping my breasts, skimming over my ribs, sweeping low over my belly.
Clasping my neck gently, he pushes me down onto the bed and drags off my shorts. I’m bare underneath, wet and helpless and so tender that when his fingertips brush the seam of my sex, I jump a little.
“Easy,” he croons. “I’ve been here before, remember?” He touches my clit, patting it with a skillful fingertip, circling it gently a few times before sweeping both hands along my inner thighs, down and then up.
I get the feeling he’s following a script, repeating a set of tried-and-true motions that are sure to deliver all the pleasure I want. Unsettled, I shift my hips, and he pauses.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Baz.”
“You’re too fixated on making sure I come hard for you—and trust me, I appreciate that. But, Dorian, this isn’t really about a mind-blowing orgasm. I mean, I want that, of course, but I don’t want you cerebral and detached, performing all the motions for my benefit. I want you out of control because you need me. You do want me, don’t you?”
His breath skates out in a sharp hiss as my hand closes around his erection. “I have been going out of my mind wanting you.”
