“If you want,” I said. “But I’m on the pill and I get tested regularly so—”
“Me too. Tested, that is.” His eyes became feral as he realized. “You okay with doing this without protection?”
By way of an answer, I twisted underneath his body, guided him between my legs. I wanted to feel all of him inside me, no barriers. “I’ve never done it like this before.”
His breath hitched. “Me neither.”
Our eyes locked. It felt like we were crossing some invisible line, a moment of import that had to be silently acknowledged. And then he eased himself inside me, holding my gaze. Ohfuck, oh God, it felt incredible. I was stretched, my body full of him, senses overwhelmed. The weight of him, the silkenheat of his skin sliding against mine and then he was moving, gentle at first, but then grinding, firmer, building up the pace. His hand moved to my face, brushing my lips, and I took his thumb in my mouth, teasing the edge with my tongue.
“Lucie.” I could see Elliot’s battle for control weakening as he slid in and out of me.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Don’t hold back on me.”
“I’m worried I’ll hurt you.” His voice was guttural.
I knew one thing to be true. “You won’t.”
It could have been early morning; it was possibly still the dead of night. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I was in Elliot’s bed, wrecked and aching in all the best ways. He was curled around me, dozing, when I was hit by a sudden urge to use the toilet.
I elbowed him. “Hey.”
“Give me a minute.” He rumbled into my hair.
“I need the loo.”
His eyes opened sleepily. “Loo,” he repeated, tightening his grip. “Fucking adorable.”
“It won’t be adorable when I wet your bed,” I said. “Where is it?”
He hooked a thumb, gesturing behind the bed. “Down there.”
I slid out from under his arm, found my shirt on the floor and pulled it on. The bedroom was indeed a mezzanine level of blond wood and minimal décor. I walked around the bed and down a little walkway, through a sliding door and fumbled with the lights.
“Holy fucking shit.” The need to wee temporarily forgotten, I took in the space. The bathroom was enormous: a free-standing tub, a shower the size of my kitchen back in London and so much pristine white tile I had to blink. I darted back out and looked down from the mezzanine across the rest of the apartment. “Elliot, why is your home so fancy?”
“I house-sit,” he rumbled from the depths of the bed.
“For who, a bloody prince?” Elliot’s apartment was a vast open space, all polished wood, exposed brick, white walls punctuated with vibrant art pieces, and heavy drapes covering enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. A glossy kitchen took up one corner, alongside an expensively rough-hewn banquet table.
“Belongs to a friend from college.” Elliot emerged from the bed, clad in sweatpants and hair all over the place. “He lives in LA, so I get to crash here.”
“Is he posh? He’s posh, isn’t he?”
“Posh?” he repeated, his lips quirking. “I don’t know about posh.”
“It’s quite simple to work out,” I said. “Does he enjoy Rugby Union or League?”
He scratched the back of his head. “Say what now?”
“Never mind.” I laughed to myself. “Bet it’s Union.”
He ambled over, brushed my thoroughly shagged hair back off my face. “Have I ever told you how hot I find your Britishisms?”
“Up until recently I thought you found them irritating,” I said.
“For the last time, aubergines look like eggs when they’re on the plant,” he said, with a wry shake of his head.
“Don’t change the subject,” I ordered. “This place is amazing.”
