Page 192 of The Fall

Blair breaks from my mouth only long enough to trail kisses down my neck. His lips brush across my chest, a slow circuit around one nipple, then the other. I move on his lap, grinding my cock against his. He grasps my ass and squeezes, guiding my movements.

“Yes, that’s it,” he whispers. Our foreheads touch, eyes locked as we move together. Sweat beads along his hairline; I taste salt when I drop my lips to his temple.

I cradle his face in my hands. Every roll of my hips draws a soft sound from his throat and I capture each one with my mouth, swallowing his pleasure as if it were my own. My thighs tremble, muscles straining as I ride the edge of control.

One of his hands slides between us, wrapping around both of our cocks. I drop my head to his shoulder, my breath coming in short pants against his neck. “Blair?—”

Blair’s free hand tangles in my hair, tugging gently to bring my mouth back to his. Our kiss is messy, desperate, tongue and teeth and shared gasps. I lose track of whose breath belongs to whom. I grind down again, again, again.

His hand tightens around us, and I stare into his eyes. I’m teetering on the brink. He whispers my name, and then everything breaks loose at once.

My body seizes, and I cry out, shuddering as I spill over both of us. Blair follows right after, holding me so tight I can barely breathe, but I don’t care. I want to be crushed against him, want every tremor that runs through his body to run through mine.

When our breathing finally steadies, Blair reaches for tissues on the nightstand. He cleans us both, and I slide off his lap and collapse beside him on the bed, my limbs heavy.

Blair rolls to me, his ocean-blue eyes soft in the dim light. His finger moves along my jaw, then he leans in to drop a kiss on my lips. It’s gentle, so different from the desperate heat of minutes ago.

Waves roll against the shore, and we drift together, trading whispers until sleep takes us both.

I hover between dreams and consciousness, Blair still asleep beside me. The sheets twist between our legs, cool where they catch the breeze from the ceiling fans, warm where they trap the heat of his body against mine. The surf rolls against our dock—rush, retreat, pause. Rush, retreat, pause.

The quiet, the warmth, the steady tick of the fan blades marking time that doesn’t matter—it is all incredibly, impossibly perfect.

His arm tightens around my waist. The stubble-rough edge of his jaw drags across my skin as he burrows closer. “What time is it, babe?” He pulls me tighter until we’re completely entangled.

I press my lips to the edge of his brow, lingering there. “Dunno.”

We have two weeks ofthis.

“You hungry?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not for food.”

He huffs out a laugh that skims down my neck, then rolls over me, pinning me to the mattress. I’m suddenly surrounded by all his sun-warmed muscle. His thigh slides between mine as his hands frame my face, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones. A scrape of sunlight catches in his eyelashes. He’s gold everywhere, on the planes of his face, in the hollow beneath his throat.

I kiss him again, slow and deep and thorough.

We do have to eat, though. Eventually.

I’m coated in salt air and sweat when the brunch room service Blair orders arrives. He carries it to the bed and sets the tray between us atop our rumpled sheets, and I steady a tilting coffee cup before it can spill while he climbs back in.

The spread is a commercial tableau: fresh fruit, pastries dusted in powdered sugar, coffee shooting up ribbons of steam. A bowl of mango slices catches the light, their orange-gold flesh bright as tropical sunset.

Blair reaches for a crepe; powdered sugar clings to his knuckles. I catch his hand before he can pull away and bring it to my mouth. Sugar dissolves against my tongue.

I want him again.

“You’re insatiable,” he says as he settles back against the headboard. He stretches his arms overhead, every muscle in his torso shifting. The sheet slips tantalizingly lower.

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“Not complaining,” he says. “Stating facts.”

“Maybe I’m a better athlete,” I tease.

“Hmm.” His eyes catch mine, a slow smile spreading across his face.

I abandon my coffee on the nightstand and slide across the rumpled sheets into Blair’s lap. The mango bowl is within reach, and I pick out a slice and bring it to his mouth. His eyes lock on mine.