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His mouth twitches, then goes serious again. “Not because I’m leaving.”

“I am definitely asking because you’re leaving.” Pain crosses his face. I move closer before he can turn it into refusal. “And because I want it.”

He looks at me for a long time. His eyes drop to my mouth, then come back up.

I say the part I wish I didn’t have to.

“I want it to be you, and I want it tonight. Just in case we don’t get another chance.”

Paul closes his eyes. When he opens them, the answer is there before he says anything.

We make it to the bedroom without saying much. That feels right. Words have been doing too much today. Every sentence cuts me open, and I’m tired of bleeding.

Paul turns on the lamp, and the room goes golden.

He stands beside the bed, hands loose at his sides, giving me space he probably thinks I need.

I do need it.

“Stop looking like I’m a skittish animal,” I say.

His mouth softens. “Just thinking about Petunia.”

I laugh, and the sound knocks some of the fear loose.

“Get on the bed.”

His eyebrows lift.

“Please,” I add, because I’m a gentleman, even when asking a man to lie down so I can put his dick in me.

Paul stretches out on the bed, naked and hard and watching me.

I stand there under it. No cam angles or lighting. Just the breath catching in my throat, my body tense when I want to feel open, and Paul, looking at me like none of that matters.

I crawl onto the bed and straddle his thighs. His hands come to my hips, then stop there, waiting.

“Since I had such a rough morning in the saddle,” I say, trying for casual but landing on shaky, “I figured I should try again.”

Paul laughs, surprised in the moment. “Don’t compare me to Petunia, please.”

“Then don’t throw me.”

“I’ll do my best.” His thumbs move against my hips. “You’re in charge.”

I lean down and kiss him.

It starts soft and slow, then deepens fast, like everything with Paul does. My hand finds his chest. His heartbeat kicks under my palm. His cock presses against me, hot and hard between us, and my nerves spark so hard I almost pull away.

Paul feels it. He doesn’t ask, just kisses my jaw, my throat, the place under my ear that makes my whole body go stupid.

“Lube?” I ask.

“Drawer.”

I reach for it, fumble, drop the bottle on his stomach, and he makes a wounded sound.

“Sorry.”