Page 55 of Darling
“I see. I’m just glad you decided to come back. Mr Sanders would have been very disappointed if he’d turned up here tomorrow and found me instead of you.” I reach my head up to kiss him very lightly on the lips. He tastes of chocolate here, too.
“He’d show you a good time.” Asher grins.
I chuckle. “A painfully good time.”
Asher laughs and presses a deeper kiss to my mouth, his warm, sweet tongue dipping between my lips.
“It’s late…” I murmur between his lazy kisses.
“It is….” Another kiss. His fingers stroke the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Perhaps we should go to bed.”
“I like it here…” he protests.
“I promise you’ll like it in there, too.”
“Why, have you got something fun planned, sir?”
“Oh, just you wait and see.” I pull back to grin. “This old dog can still do some tricks.”
His laugh is a low, throaty thing that goes straight to my cock.
Eighteen
Asher
Cole texts to say he’s gonna be early, which is sort of irritating since we’d spent the morning lazing around eating fruit and pancakes (just fruit and black coffee for me) and making out like teenagers who’d just agreed to go steady. Last night had been great too. After my little ‘episode’. I’d expected to come back from my drive and snack run to a packed bag and an apologetic ‘sorry, this isn’t working for me anymore’ face, and for him to be back in DC by now. But no. He fucking apologised to me. He apologised and told me he felt more himself when he’s with me than anywhere else. How do I defend myself against that? Tell me? Because I’m all fucking ears.
This is the same guy who can’t offer me anything like love?
I don’t even think he means to fuck with my head, either. It’s just who he is. Sure, he’s a politician, so maybe he’s just saying all this because that’s what these guys do, make you believe their lies and promises and then about turn when you least expect it. But I just don’t think Christian Darling is like that. He’s just a decent, sincere kinda guy. I’m sort of fucked here.
Last night, after he’d fingered and sucked me to orgasm, I’d fallen quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep. I’d woken up to piss through the night with his arm wrapped tight around me and myhead tucked under his chin, curled toward each other like the branches of a tree.
It isn’t something I do very often, sleep next to another person, but I like it. It’s intimate in a different way to how sex is intimate. When I’d come back to bed, he’d lifted his arm and let me settle back beneath it, and I’d dropped back to sleep easily. I don’t want to get out of bed. It’s too warm. Too comfortable. Too special.
“I gotta shower and prep real quick,” I groan as I untangle my limbs from his. “Cole will be here in forty minutes.”
He makes a noise of annoyance but lets me up.
“Do you need a hand in there?” he asks, folding an arm behind his head. He looks fucking sexy like that. Bed rumpled, sleepy, and seductive, and I hear another defensive wall start to crumble. Oh, who am I kidding? There are no walls, just a badly built fence.
“I’m still pretty loose from last night.” He’d fingered me for what felt like hours, edged me until I thought I’d lose my mind, and then after I’d come on my chest, he’d licked me clean. It still surprises me that he’s so loud and forceful with his desires. Maybe all closeted men who have to hide themselves everywhere but the bedroom are like this? He’d made me watch as he fucked his own hand. I’d wanted to suck him off, but my bones had been hot clay, soft and molten, so I’d just enjoyed the view. It was sexy as fuck.Hewas sexy as fuck.
“Is that a no?” he checks.
I shake my head, grinning. “No.”
He’s out of bed a second later and tugging me toward the shower.
??
Yeah, okay, I’m antsy. I mean, I can get antsy before a scene, ifit’s a guy I don’t know or who’s ‘bigger’ than I am, popularity-wise. But this has a slightly different edge to it. A new flavour. I’d been watched before by a guy I was seeing. Or thought I was seeing. It wasn’t a great experience for me. Not long after theDazedarticle, I started seeing a filmmaker—I mean, he called himself a filmmaker, but he was a photographer, really. Older, well-travelled, and well-read. He’d taken me for dinner—guys who only wanted to fuck me usually never bothered with dinner—and paid. He’d complimented me all night, talked about places he’d been, places he thought I’d like, because he knew I hadn’t left the States, telling me about them in ways that suggested he might want to take me there himself one day. I cringe a little now, thinking about how desperate and naïve and dazzled I must have come off to him.
On our third date, he took me to a club. It looked like a lot of other clubs in New York at first, but as we descended the stairs and a curtain was pulled back, I knew it wasn’t. I did porn, but I wasn’t what anyone would call experienced. I’d made no secret of that; it was a large part of the reason I got hired at my first studio—my innocence, my sheltered religious upbringing—and I played up on it. I was nineteen and so fucking into him that I said nothing when he took me into a room where another guy was waiting and made it very clear he wanted a live show. “Do your thing, baby,” he’d said with hungry eyes.
And I did.