39
Remy
The microwave beeps for the third time— the fucking thing is loud enough to be heard from space.
“Hey love, can you get that?”
Radio silence.
Tossing his deodorant on the bathroom counter, I step into a pair of borrowed sweats, grumbling under my breath, “Is he hearing impaired?” I’m about to investigate why the irresistible shithead isn’t answering when I catch the reflection of my flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
I’ve learned a few things tonight:
Win’s been struggling in silence for too fucking long.
His past actions are finally starting to make sense.
He’s the most beautiful, broken creature to exist.
While these revelations are life-altering, I keep returning to something ridiculously trivial in comparison.
I’m obsessed with sucking his dick.
The microwave shrieksagain.
He has to be messing with me.
Massaging my jaw, I stomp out of the bathroom. “Winston fucking Rhodes get the damn—"
My voice dies.
He’s on his stomach diagonal across the mattress, leg hitched and perfect ass on display. My gaze snags on a tattoo beginning at his waist, descending to his lower back, and curving around his outer thigh. Black lashes fan over his cheek, half his face smushed into a pillow as soft snores escape his parted lips.
In a trance, I creep toward him, trailing my fingertips up his ankle, to his calf, higher to the back of his thigh until I reach his firm ass.
His eyelids flutter.
Bending to his ear, I whisper, “Did I wear you out, sweet thing?”
Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised he passed out. Between the emotional eruption and subsequent hookup, he must be exhausted.
One sleepy grey eye opens. “Mmph?”
“Yeah, thought so,” I chuckle. “You were supposed to put pants on.”
“Fuck pants."
