For him.

  I’m scorching inside and out. “I hated being there without you. I was miserable. Absolutely miserable.”

  “Good,” he says.

  I deserve that rough tone. I deserve the reminder.

  “I’m so fucking glad you had an awful time in Amsterdam without me,” he adds.

  But Jude deserves to be reminded too.

  My hands race up the front of his shirt, undoing another button. I press a hot kiss to his chest. Another button. Another kiss. Another groan from his lips as I journey down, punishing him with pleasure.

  “I bet you were miserable. But you could have had this,” I say as I shove open his shirt, exposing his smooth chest and abs.

  My throat rumbles as I lick my way down his body. When I reach the waistband of his pants, I lift my face, stand to my full height, and lock eyes with him. “I would have fucked you so good in Amsterdam.”

  His blue irises are burning flames. “Would you now?” It’s a taunt, asking me to prove it.

  I start by gripping his hard-on, and he feels so good, so right. “I always did fuck you good,” I say, then rub my whiskers across his cheek, drawing out a heady moan.

  I know how to drive him wild.

  I will use all my tools. I will weaponize my beard, and my lips, and my hands. I squeeze his dick nice and hard. “Say I fucked you good, Jude,” I command. “Say it.”

  His breath stutters as I stroke the outline of his cock.

  But he doesn’t do as I asked. Instead, he lifts a hand, grabs my jaw, and stares fiercely at me. “I think you forgot how this goes. I give the orders. You like to follow them.”

  His voice is deep and sexy, and he’s right. Of course, he’s right. He always told me what to do and I loved it. “Like this one. Fuck me now,” he demands.

  “God yes,” I say, relief and lust tearing through me in equal measure as I kiss him the way I plan to fuck him.

  With everything I have.

  He takes my kisses like they’re all he needs, and as I devour his mouth, I push off his shirt. My hands are so damn happy to explore his chest and arms. But then, I can’t forget his ass. His perfect, firm, tight ass that I long to fuck. Curling my hands over those cheeks, I knead him through his clothes, then I break the kiss. “Bedroom. Now.”

  He toes off his shoes and socks, and I do the same. Grabbing at my shirt, he tugs me, walking backward. He undoes my buttons as we go, reaching the last one right as we get to his bedroom door.

  Moonlight streaks through the window, illuminating the bed. I refused to sneak a peek in here yesterday. Now, my gaze eats up the space. It’s small, but it has everything we need—a king-size mattress and a mirror on the closet door.

  Trouble is that his bed is host to a pile of clothing wreckage. The evidence thrills me. “Did you have a hard time picking what to wear tonight?”

  “Oh. Right,” he says, letting go to glance at the mess. When he jerks his gaze back to me, he shrugs, like he knows he’s been busted. “Took me a while to decide.”

  “Why? Tell me why?” I ask as he gathers the clothes, hauls them into his arms, and deposits them on a red chair in the corner of the room.

  When he spins around—shirtless and barefoot and incomparably sexy in only those slim black pants—he shoots me a seductive smile. Just like that, with a crook of his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, he turns his spotlight on me once again. “I wanted you to be a hot mess for me,” he says.

  Mission accomplished.

  I swallow roughly. I’m not sure I can say anything intelligent. My brain is frying. My mouth is dry with lust. “I am,” I growl as I shed my shirt, then march over to him, grab my man, and pull him down onto the mattress with me.

  I make out with him like crazy, my arms wrapped around him, our bodies grinding and thrusting, until—

  “Fuck!” A sharp piece of wood digs into my back.

  Jude rolls off me, and I sit upright, fumbling around the mattress. I grab the wooden hanger, toss it off the bed, and spy a yellow linen shirt on the pillow. “You didn’t pick your favorite color to wear tonight,” I remark as I shove that to the floor too.

  “Maybe I wanted to surprise you tonight with another color,” he says and climbs over me.

  “You did. But this shirtless look is even better.” I peer around him, catching a glimpse in the mirror of the gorgeous man straddling me.

  I want to linger in this moment. Record it somehow. I lift a hand slowly, slide my thumb along his jaw. “You like this? Being on me right now?”

  He shoots me a quizzical look. “Yes. Obviously. Why?”

  “Because I could see you in one of my books. Looking down at the other hero, like you’re doing this second,” I say plainly.

  There’s no seduction in my voice, just an admission of how this moment is hitting me—like an intimate after-dark scene when they speak with touch. I trace his face with my fingers, memorizing what I’ve already committed to heart.

  Him.

  “Good. Then use it in a story,” he whispers, a tiny smile on his lips as he dips his face to mine, dusts a sensual kiss across my eyelids.

  “It’s practically writing itself,” I murmur.

  “But I bet we’d be naked if this were one of your books.”

  I laugh, then we get out of bed in a flurry. It’d be faster for me to take off my own pants. Same for him. But instead, our hands grab at each other. I want to comment on how much I’ve missed this contact. But I don’t want to ruin tonight with sappy words.

  I stay in the sex zone, in the frenzied rush of fingers over buttons, thumbs on zippers, palms pushing down the fabric.

  I’m vibrating as he shoves off my pants and grabs at my boxer briefs, his greedy fingers jerking them down my legs.

  My dick springs free, standing at attention.

  His throat rumbles as he stares at me. But there’s no time to linger. I practically rip off his clothes. Naked at last, we crash into each other, skin against skin, cock against cock. We tumble onto the bed, Jude on top of me again.

  Like the first time we fucked.

  No idea how we’re screwing tonight, but I know this—he’ll decide. He’ll tell me. And I’ll give it to him however he wants. But first, his eager hands roam on my cock. My hips jerk into his palm as he grips me.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he murmurs, then slides down between my legs. “But I missed your dick a lot.”

  A savage groan rips from my chest as I push his head closer to my cock. “Pretty sure I’m taking that the right way,” I say, then I grunt when he swallows me.

  Jesus.

  Fuck.

  It’s so good.

  His mouth surrounds my shaft, and I am lost in the dirty heaven of Jude. He flicks his tongue along my length as he hauls me deep. Pleasure crackles down my thighs. The build-up is insane and immediate. In seconds, I’m groaning, but I’m keenly aware that I don’t want to shoot into his mouth. I want to bury my cock in his body. Fill him all the way up so he can’t feel anything else but me stretching him.

  But if he sucks me like this, I’ll come in seconds.

  I pull him off. His lips are swollen, even more so when he pouts. “But it’s my favorite,” he says.

  “I know, baby. Me too. But I’ve got to get inside you. Please,” I say, begging him. I want him that much.

  His eyes glint with wicked intent, and he crawls across the bed to the nightstand, hunts for lube, a condom, and a hand towel, then flops to his back.

  “Get me ready. You know what I like,” he commands.

  Bossy Jude.

  I like Bossy Jude.

  Parking his hands behind his head, he plants his feet on the bed, knees up.

  Oh, yes.

  I kneel between his legs, clicking open the lube, drizzling some on my fingers. Then it’s my turn to show him how much I’ve missed his cock. Dipping my head, I draw him into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the tip. I groan, inhaling the salty taste of Jude Fox as I play with his ass.

  The second I press a finger against his entrance, he bumps down onto me. “Another finger,” he demands.

  I suck harder on his cock and give him exactly what he wants. More.

  When he’s a panting, writhing mess, he pushes up on his elbows. “Fuck me now, TJ. Now.”

  Each word is a guttural command. After I wipe my hand on the towel, I reach for the condom.

  “Wait,” he says, then meets my gaze.

  I don’t see the lust in his eyes. Only vulnerability. Only honesty. “I’ve been tested. Negative. And you know I haven’t been with anyone,” he says, looking up at me with the most open expression I’ve ever seen.

  Like my yes is all he’s ever wanted.

  Having him bare is all I want tonight.

  “Same for me, baby. Same for me.”

  Jude turns around on the bed, gets on his hands and knees, and offers me his beautiful body.

  I shudder at the sight of his long, lean back, the strong curves of his ass, and most of all, his gorgeous face, watching me over his shoulder as I kneel behind him. I roam my hands reverently over the smooth globes of his ass, ready to worship at the altar of his body.

  Fucking Jude is a religious experience. Touching him is unholy ecstasy, especially when he lifts his ass higher. He gropes blindly on the bed for the lube, then shoves it at me.

  I coat my cock then smack my lubed dick against his hole.

  “Show me how much you missed me in Amsterdam,” he instructs, planting his palms against the mattress.

  Fuck Amsterdam. I’ll show him how much I missed him 24/7. “Every day and every night,” I say as I push in.

  He groans, and I grunt, our sounds a filthy soundtrack to the dirty sight in front of me—his body swallowing my cock. He takes, and he takes until my dick disappears, and there is nothing better in the world than his tight body welcoming my cock home.

  “Yes,” he groans as I sink all the way in.

  “Fucking yes,” I mutter, stilling for a moment to just revel in the heat.

  Then I move, easing out, driving in. “God, you feel good, baby. So tight for me. So fucking hot for me.”

  “And you’re so fucking hard for me,” he praises as we find a rhythm.

  There was no other way for this night to unfold. We had to end up in bed. We had to come together. It was just our time.

  And I make the most of it, in case it’s our only time. If it is, I want him to savor every second with me. While I thrust deep into him, my hand slides up his back, gripping his shoulder. With my other hand, I smack his ass.

  The sound he makes is carnal, so I fuck him harder for several long, mind-bending strokes. As I do, my brain flatlines with pleasure. The room fills with grunts and groans. With growls and whimpers. With the slide of sweat and the filthy slap of flesh against flesh.

  Then with his urgent voice. “Like this.”

  Jude lifts his chest, letting me know what he wants. I yank him against me, so we’re both on our knees, the mirror a third party to our sex. The reflection gives a triple-X view of two men tangled together, each of us desperately craving this raw, true connection.

  I rope an arm around his strong pecs, clasping him tightly, our skin slick. He leans his head back, turning his face to me.

  I give Jude everything he asks for.

  Hot, hungry kisses. Deep, powerful thrusts. Primal, sweaty connection.

  I grab the lube, pour some on my hand. Then, as I fuck him, I jerk his cock. My slick hand flies along his length as he groans and pants.

  My thoughts race, and as I drive into him, I’m struck with the utter wildness of the evening. I don’t know how we’ve gone from flirting, to talking, to getting jealous, to spilling out messy emotions, to the kind of passionate sex I’ve only ever had with him.

  But I know this—once we strip away the jealousy, we show each other the truth with our bodies.

  Like how much I’ve missed him.

  How much I regret.

  How much I want.

  With his pleasure in my hand, I cover his mouth with my lips one more time, kissing him as he erupts, coming all over my fingers and the bed.

  And I am done.

  My body lights up, fire everywhere, a brilliant blaze as I shove deep into him, releasing inside his body for the first time.

  I hope it’s not the last. Especially when he collapses and, a minute later, mutters, “I’ll say it. You fucked me good.”

  Smiling, I slump next to him. I kiss his shoulder and try to plot our next steps. I’ve no idea what we’re supposed to do. So I start with a simple suggestion.

  15

  I Am A Furnace, He Is A Cat

  TJ

  * * *

  We shower.

  We don’t talk, and that works for me. I don’t want to ruin this bubble of sex and intimacy, especially since Jude and I feel like old times under a hot stream of water. Like the moments we had in London before we hurt each other.

  Maybe Jude’s afraid to ruin this moment too. He’s quiet as well, wordlessly cleaning up and sharing his body wash.

  I study the bottle as I take it, recording another detail in my Jude file. The bottle is labeled Sunshine and Citrus, and the scent fits him. Using it, I wash off the evidence of sex, then spin him around, soap his shoulders, his arms, his chest, staying silent as my hands travel over his body.

  He lets me, like a cat permitting several, luxurious strokes of its fur. That’s fitting too. Jude is something of a cat—in charge, demanding, beautiful. “Do you like cats?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You seem like a cat person,” I remark.

  A soft laugh comes from him, but then it dies. The water patters against black tiles on the floor.

  Does he plan to ask me to stay the night? My heart races too fast with worry. Maybe an hour at his place is all we need for our boyfriend theater. What if that was just sex and catharsis?

  But I should ask. I don’t want to be the guy with walls forever. “Can I stay the night?”

  “Yes,” he says simply.

  That’s all. Nothing more to his answer or his tone.

  His back is to me, and he tips his head under the water, but I can tell his eyes are closed, so I can’t read his reaction any more than his voice.

  Jude clears his throat. “On one condition.”

  I tense, bracing myself for whatever is coming. Knee-jerk reaction on my part, but so it goes. “Yeah?”

  Opening his eyes, he turns around, determination in his expression. “Tell me why you were so adamant we come here.”

  Huh. “Was I adamant?”

  “You were, TJ,” he says, firm and clear. “Like you didn’t want me at your place.”

  Ah, I get his tone now. He doesn’t want to leave things unsaid.

  That’s good, objectively.

  But it’s hard in reality.

  Since that means I have to figure out why the hell I was dead set on coming here. At the time, I gave a gut response since my gut said I wasn’t ready to bring him to my apartment. Why the hell don’t I want him there? Fine, I do like being at his place. His home makes me feel good. Maybe even safe.

  And there it is. I don’t feel as safe with him in my home. Now I need to dissect why.

  Ugh.

  This emotional shit is hard. “Gimme two minutes,” I say.

  He snort-laughs. “You don’t know the answer?”

  “This may shock you, but sometimes I have to think before I speak.”

  Jude rolls his eyes. “Some things never change.”

  As I get out of the shower, I search for the reason. I don’t stop hunting for my motivation as I return to his room, find my black boxer briefs, and tug them on.

  He grabs a pair of purple ones with dragons on the waistband. Rafe Rodmans. “Hot,” I say, then I gesture to the doorway. “I’m going to grab some water.”

  In the kitchen, he hands me a glass. I down some water from the tap, and I swear I can hear a clock ticking in my head.

  I better find the answer soon. Something other than I’m not ready to invite you into my home.

  I scan his place as if I can find the answer in his couch, his window, his kitchen.

  His makeshift bookshelf.

  That’s it. Books.

  As I set down the glass on the counter, I walk quietly into the adjoining living room then run a finger along the spines, stopping at New York Hidden Gems.

  Jude sits on the couch, waiting patiently. That’s new too—Jude being patient.

  It’s a step toward me—time to take one more toward him. I turn around, meet his gaze head-on. “There’s a lot of me at my place. My books. My computer. Notebooks with ideas,” I say.

  He nods a few times like he’s taking it in. “Are you afraid I’d read them?”

  The word again is unsaid, but it hangs between us at the end of his question. But tonight, I don’t want to hash out what went wrong in Los Angeles, from the way I bungled telling him about my deal to the hurtful accusations he lobbed at me.

  Or how I walked away, retaliating over and over by not giving him a chance to say he was sorry.

  Tonight, I want to get into bed and curl up with him. Just feel him close to me as we sleep.

  But I owe him answers. Pretty sure I also owe it to myself to face my own issues. “No. But my books came between us last time. There’s a ton of copies of Top-Notch Boyfriend on my shelves. My publisher in each country sends them to me, so I have a lot. I guess I didn’t want us to be surrounded by that. Not tonight. Not when I had a feeling . . .”

  His lips twitch. “You had a feeling you’d seduce me?”

  Flopping down next to him, I park a hand on his knee. “Dude, when will you ever get it straight? You’re always seducing me. Always.”

  “Good. It happens to be my favorite hobby.” Then he sinks deeper into the couch and hums pensively. “I don’t want your books to come between us,” he says, his brow creased. “And I don’t entirely know what that means. But I think it would be good if . . . they don’t come between us.”

  I don’t entirely know what that means either, but I’m pretty sure this is a good first step—communicating about what we want and what we don’t want.

  “I’m good with that,” I say.