I start to take off my glasses, but Arthur stops me, keeping my wrist locked in an iron grip by his hip. “Leave them on. Need you to be you,” he groans—and my stomach flutters at how quickly he takes himself into his own hand, his pants only halfway off. There isn’t any hesitation, no asking why I’d want to do something soweird. It was his idea in the first place.
That’s what makes me breathless as he runs his large palm over the tip of himself, wetness gleaming in the warm lighting. He wants this.
He’s this turned on by my gaze.
So I let myself look. I don’t mask my lips pressing together from the sight of his tan hand running down the length of his cock,the skin there paler and flushed. When he spits into his hand and moans from the added wetness, I don’t hide that I’m squirming, thighs rubbing together.
“You’re not going to give in, right?” he breathes out. His words are punctuated by his own movements, and God, the slick sounds and his undone voice make me want to fall apart.
I press back against the wall. “No.”
“You can wait?”
“Definitely.”
“Good girl.” His mouth twitches, and he pumps faster. “Eyes on my cock, sweetheart. Watch me come for you.”
Sweetheart. Why is the most basic American term of endearment what makes me tug our linked hands toward my hips and grind his balled fist over the front of my underwear? Arthur’s eyes darken, and he hisses out a breath, but he doesn’t stop. Only slows and leans his forehead down against mine, warm and slick with sweat, his stifled gasps caught between us. His two fingers press exactly where I want them to through my soaked underwear, and I drag my lower lip between my teeth, biting hard.
“You can come first, it’s okay,” I whisper.
“No.” He fists the base of his cock. “Not when I’m gonna win.”
I want to laugh. Of course he’s able to focus on an imaginary prize in a made-up competition. Or maybe this is just his way of making sure I get off, too. It doesn’t matter; my thoughts scatter as he brings me closer, close, there. Trembling, I wrap my hands around his thick forearm for stability.
“Now?” he murmurs.
I nod wordlessly. Arthur exhales, and whatever lightning storm was flickering below my waist before gets swept away by the punctured gasp he makes at touching the tip of himself again. I pull his arm against my chest as I sink under, as if I need to get him asclose to me as possible. And maybe I do. I’ve never hadanyoneof any gender take me apart with this much precision and mental foreplay. Nobody.
He’s going to ruin me for everyone else, too.
“Fuck, Lilah,” Arthur pants, and I know he’s following me over the edge, because after that it’s all Italian. I kiss his arm, the closest thing to me, and listen to the aftermath. His breathing, his soft noises, his heartbeat. No, that’s mine, pounding in my ears.
His fingers slow where they’re slotted against me, then drop to grip my thigh. “Are you okay?”
I nod. He’s not asking because my glasses are foggy and I’m having trouble staying upright. “Are you?”
There’s a muffled sound above my ear, Arthur pressing his lips against the crown of my head. I don’t totally hear what he says, but it sounds suspiciously likeperfect.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shit.
I stare at the dark ceiling of the hotel suite, not moving a muscle. It’s between midnight and sunrise. I’m in a bed.
And Arthur Bianco is asleep next to me.
We’d come to bed after cleaning up, something that had seemed fine—nice, even—hours ago. He’d slept politely restrained to his side of the twin-sized mattress, until I’d wriggled over and got his hand in mine. Then he’d wrapped me in his arms, sunk his nose into my hair, and gone to sleep again. So had I, for a brief, dreamless interlude.
That’s where I am now. In his arms.
Shit.
This is extreme. Not that I dislike it. I like it. But sleeping together in the literal sense is zero to two hundred miles per hour without checking to see if we have brakes. How am I supposed to act in the morning when things are awkward and strange between us? What even are we, now that we’ve confirmed there are feelings? Oh, wait.I’dconfirmed I have feelings. I don’t know if he did. And we’re going to have to talk about the film at some point, and how to handle the professional apocalypse heading our way, and it’s going to be awful and weird and uncomfortable and—
“You awake, Graywood?”
Arthur’s sleep-deepened voice drifts down the pillows. Myhead’s against his chest, his arm around my back, andwhendid he wake up? His breathing never changed.
