“Fuck yeah.” I stroke myself harder, sitting up, spreading my thighs after I push my underwear and trousers down a little further. I lean my head back against the chair. “God, you’re hot.”
“I wish you were here…” Stef moans.
I groan in response, absolutely fucking riveted. He’s trembling, and I’m covered in goose bumps, and I don’t ever want this moment to stop. This thrill of having him greedily all to myself, doing my bidding.
“How bad do you want me?” I ask.
“Real bad.”
“Yeah… you’re so fucking hot, Stef… and don’t you dare touch that cock. It’s fucking mine.”
He whimpers in a broken way deep in his throat, and his body tenses in a way I’m fascinated by, watching the curve of his stomach as he sucks back a ragged breath.
“I’m going to?—”
“Come, gorgeous. Fucking come for me right now.”
He sucks his fingers, while gripping his thigh tightly with his other hand. Then, he spasms with his release, gasping hard. His cum splatters against his belly, and I’m so into the fact that he came just like that for me, like I’ve been waiting for this moment forever, hungry and seeking and wanting him.
“Theo,” he begs, touching his cock as it twitches. He shudders.
“Yeah—fuck—” With a strangled groan, I erupt all over my belly, track my fingers through it all, and then lick them lingeringly as he gawps at me.
“Uhhh, wow…” Stef gasps, collapsing back into his sofa. He keeps staring at me.
At last, I fold my arms behind my head, gripping the nape of my neck. I watch as he finds a tissue to clean himself up. My sides still rise and fall with effort as I continue to gaze at him.
“You’re so fucking hot,” I murmur. “You have absolutely no idea.”
“So are you. God, I wish you were here. Or I was there. Or something.” Then he screws up his face. “What’ve you done to me?”
I just laugh softly. “If you were here, I’d keep you up all fucking night, believe me… Consider yourself lucky.”
We gaze at each other.
I lick my lips, hungry for Stef and to continue where we left off. We’ve officially made our situation much more difficult. Well done, us.
When we hang up, I don’t know what to do with myself, and I spend a mostly sleepless night in a very comfortable, luxurious bed all alone—without him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the morning, I have no choice but to vigorously get myself off twice before morning coffee, despite the fuzzy head—because there’s no other way I can cope. All I can think about is Stef.
“Fuck,” I mutter breathlessly under my breath, sprawled out on the appropriately super-king-sized bed, approximately the size of a small nation. A nation where Stef isn’t a citizen.
Get a grip, Theo. Not at all fucking helpful.
I end up ordering some coffee after blasting Florence + the Machine and a scalding shower in an effort to bring me back to my senses. In my dressing gown, I sit by the table overlooking the Windsor Castle gardens. Outside, everything is beautiful and still. When I open the window for fresh air to help my hangover, I blink in the morning sunlight, take in the new spring greens of the grounds, and wait for the painkillers to kick in.
Which is when I turn my hand to a trawl on social media as my brain thuds.
My timeline is nothing but clips of dancing and selfies and shenanigans from friends and relatives. Even Auggie posted sometime around 4:00 a.m., the maniac. Nothing untoward, just a selfie with Thomas where they beam at the camera together, looking entirely thrilled with each other. It’s a little bittersweet, seeing Auggie so happy, but a lot more of me is happy for him because he deserves someone who adores him.
Then there’s Aidan, in the midst of my scroll of epic Windsor Castle shots.
I was not prepared for Aidan this morning. I wince. He’s got some feature on House and Home or House & Garden or who the hell knows what magazine would have the indecency to give Aidan an actual platform he doesn’t deserve based on his bullshit.
Frowning, I watch the video tour through his beautiful Richmond home. The home, by the way, I helped Aidan decorate, source antiques and modern art for him, right down to finding the leafy monstera and buying his favorite painting now hanging over the sofa I found for him. Obviously, he’s not one for giving credit where it’s due. His place was a bachelor pad trash fire before me. Never mind what the exposure on House & Garden would do for my—and Ethan’s—career.
