Page 66

"I know. You don't have to have. You just have to say okay."

He looks at the list. At the five rules in my messy handwriting on the building's notepad. Then he looks at me.

"Okay," he says.

I tear the page off. I fold it in half and put it on the gray coffee table, and I put the pen on top of it, like a paperweight.

Then I stand up, and I hold out my hand.

Owen looks at it for a second like he's not sure what to do with an open hand that isn't asking for a stick or a high-five. Then he takes it. His palm is dry. Warm. I pull him up from the gray couch and walk him toward the hallway without letting go.

The bedroom is the same as the rest of the place—gray walls, gray blinds, a bed with a gray duvet still half-made. One nightstand. A lamp he hasn't turned on. Across the hall, through the open door of the second bedroom, I can see the cardboard box that says OWEN — MISC, still taped shut, waiting for someone to claim it.

I stop at the foot of the bed and turn to face him.

"Rule five," I say quietly. "In here, I'm in charge. You still okay with that?"

His throat works. "Yes."

"Good. Sit on the edge of the bed."

He sits. The mattress dips under his weight. His hands rest on his knees, fingers spread, like he's bracing for a hit that isn't coming.

I stand between his knees. "Look at me."

He does.

"I'm going to take your shirt off. Hands on my waist while I do it."

He lifts his arms when I reach for the hem of the quarter-zip. The fabric slides up over his chest, his shoulders, his head. I drop it on the floor. His hands settle on my waist the way I told him, fingers light at first, then firmer when I don't pull away.

I run my palms down his bare arms, over the hard muscle of his biceps, the soft inside of his elbows. "You're doing good," I tell him. "Just keep listening."

He nods once.

I unbutton my own shirt slowly, watching his eyes track every button. When it's open I shrug it off and let it fall. His gaze drops to my chest, my stomach, the dark line of hair that disappears into my jeans. He looks hungry and nervous at the same time.

"Take your jeans off," I say. "Underwear too. Leave them on the floor."

He stands. The belt comes undone with a quiet metallic sound. He pushes the denim and the black briefs down together, steps out of them, and sits again. Completely bare now. His cock is already half-hard against his thigh, thickening as I look at it. He doesn't try to cover himself. That feels like something.

I kneel between his spread knees. The carpet is thin under me. I rest my hands on his thighs and feel the muscle jump.

"I'm going to put my mouth on you," I tell him. "You can stop me anytime. You just say stop and I stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say my name when you understand."

"Rémy." His voice is rough. "I understand."

I lean in and press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his left thigh, then the right. His skin is warm and a little salty from the day. I work my way higher until the head of his cock brushes my cheek. He's fully hard now, thick, the head already shiny. I wrap one hand around the base and hold him steady.

"Watch me," I say.

He does. His eyes are dark and fixed on my mouth as I lean forward and take the head between my lips. The first taste of him is clean and sharp. I sink down slowly, letting the weight of him fill my mouth, then pull back with a wet sound. His breath stutters.

I do it again, deeper this time, and hollow my cheeks on the way up. His hands hover near my head, unsure.