scratchy beard, buried my face in the
crook of his neck, anchored myself around him, and squirmed in his lap, chasing
the beginning of the end.
He increased his pace, pressure building, a slender
cord drawn taut between my stomach and groin. My balls hiked up, and I gasped,
gritting my teeth to stifle the sound I made as I came. My brain switched off,
and I was oblivious to everything save the movement of his lips against my neck
as he nuzzled me.
When I finally had strength to move, I clasped his
face between my hands and kissed him, our eyes hooded, lazy, satisfied smiles
on our faces.
“Have you got a towel?” he asked, looking around
for something on which to wipe his hand.
Groaning melodramatically, I fell off his lap onto
the bed, nestling in my pillows.
“It’s that or change the sheets tomorrow,” Magnus
warned, an amused look on his face.
“Fine.” I clambered to my feet and made for the
bathroom, trying not to get self-conscious about the fact Magnus was watching
my naked arse. I’d only end up walking funny, trying to stop my cheeks
wobbling.
I wiped down with a flannel soaked in warm water,
wrung it out, and wet it again before taking it to him. He had reclined on the
bed, his head on the pillows, an appreciative smile on his face, blue eyes soft
around the edges with sleep and, I hoped, a little affection. He held out his
hand and I wiped my spunk away, then ran the flannel over his groin, giving his
flaccid dick a little tug which made him squirm.
Tossing the cloth on top of my discarded jeans, I
climbed over him and under the covers on the opposite side of the bed.
“We should probably have closed the curtains,”
Magnus mused, glancing at the second set of French doors, which also led onto
my balcony.
“We’re seven floors up,” I said with a dismissive
wave of my hand. “Nobody can see in.”
He lifted his legs, pushed down the covers, and
made an ungainly show of getting into bed. I snuggled against him, slinging my
arm over him and resting my cheek on his chest. He covered my arm with his own,
sliding his other under my pillow, holding me securely. I twisted his chest
hair around my finger and did my best to stifle a yawn.
“Sleep,” Magnus said, kissing my forehead. “I’ll
still be here in the morning.”
“Damn right, you will,” I mumbled, wriggling to get
comfortable and closing my eyes.
By the time morning arrived, we’d both come twice
more, and more than earned the decadent breakfast Magnus treated me to at the
greasy spoon down the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Saturday afternoon, I put the long goodbye we’d
shared in the morning out of my mind and got down to work. I’d finished writing
and only had to go over the manuscript making minor changes before I was due to
hand it to Max on Monday. The book had taken six months to write, but now I was
so close to the end, I didn’t want to let it go. Not that I would be done with
it for another several months yet: there was editing to go through, and perhaps
even a rewrite if Squire decided they didn’t like something about the
narrative. Yet in that moment it was perfect, as fresh and raw as it would ever
be. Somehow the finished, polished product always, to my mind, lacked the spark
of the final draft.
I wasn’t going to be a diva about it, I told myself
firmly. I would hand it in, let the powers that be make whatever changes they
wanted, and cash the cheque I was due on its acceptance. My flat hadn’t been
cheap, and I needed the money to keep up with my mortgage payments. That’s one
thing they never tell you when the newspapers are reporting you’re a
millionaire: the money comes in a trickle over the course of years, and real
estate in London is pricey enough to cripple all but the very richest. My
little flat had cost almost three-quarters of a million pounds. I wondered if I
should have moved to the suburbs, bought a house for half the price like Ryan
and Sameer, but I loved the city, loved
crook of his neck, anchored myself around him, and squirmed in his lap, chasing
the beginning of the end.
He increased his pace, pressure building, a slender
cord drawn taut between my stomach and groin. My balls hiked up, and I gasped,
gritting my teeth to stifle the sound I made as I came. My brain switched off,
and I was oblivious to everything save the movement of his lips against my neck
as he nuzzled me.
When I finally had strength to move, I clasped his
face between my hands and kissed him, our eyes hooded, lazy, satisfied smiles
on our faces.
“Have you got a towel?” he asked, looking around
for something on which to wipe his hand.
Groaning melodramatically, I fell off his lap onto
the bed, nestling in my pillows.
“It’s that or change the sheets tomorrow,” Magnus
warned, an amused look on his face.
“Fine.” I clambered to my feet and made for the
bathroom, trying not to get self-conscious about the fact Magnus was watching
my naked arse. I’d only end up walking funny, trying to stop my cheeks
wobbling.
I wiped down with a flannel soaked in warm water,
wrung it out, and wet it again before taking it to him. He had reclined on the
bed, his head on the pillows, an appreciative smile on his face, blue eyes soft
around the edges with sleep and, I hoped, a little affection. He held out his
hand and I wiped my spunk away, then ran the flannel over his groin, giving his
flaccid dick a little tug which made him squirm.
Tossing the cloth on top of my discarded jeans, I
climbed over him and under the covers on the opposite side of the bed.
“We should probably have closed the curtains,”
Magnus mused, glancing at the second set of French doors, which also led onto
my balcony.
“We’re seven floors up,” I said with a dismissive
wave of my hand. “Nobody can see in.”
He lifted his legs, pushed down the covers, and
made an ungainly show of getting into bed. I snuggled against him, slinging my
arm over him and resting my cheek on his chest. He covered my arm with his own,
sliding his other under my pillow, holding me securely. I twisted his chest
hair around my finger and did my best to stifle a yawn.
“Sleep,” Magnus said, kissing my forehead. “I’ll
still be here in the morning.”
“Damn right, you will,” I mumbled, wriggling to get
comfortable and closing my eyes.
By the time morning arrived, we’d both come twice
more, and more than earned the decadent breakfast Magnus treated me to at the
greasy spoon down the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Saturday afternoon, I put the long goodbye we’d
shared in the morning out of my mind and got down to work. I’d finished writing
and only had to go over the manuscript making minor changes before I was due to
hand it to Max on Monday. The book had taken six months to write, but now I was
so close to the end, I didn’t want to let it go. Not that I would be done with
it for another several months yet: there was editing to go through, and perhaps
even a rewrite if Squire decided they didn’t like something about the
narrative. Yet in that moment it was perfect, as fresh and raw as it would ever
be. Somehow the finished, polished product always, to my mind, lacked the spark
of the final draft.
I wasn’t going to be a diva about it, I told myself
firmly. I would hand it in, let the powers that be make whatever changes they
wanted, and cash the cheque I was due on its acceptance. My flat hadn’t been
cheap, and I needed the money to keep up with my mortgage payments. That’s one
thing they never tell you when the newspapers are reporting you’re a
millionaire: the money comes in a trickle over the course of years, and real
estate in London is pricey enough to cripple all but the very richest. My
little flat had cost almost three-quarters of a million pounds. I wondered if I
should have moved to the suburbs, bought a house for half the price like Ryan
and Sameer, but I loved the city, loved
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