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from Clare London
The hands on my shoulders are
fast and sure and for a second I’m caught off balance. I’ve
barely stepped through the door of the bedroom, thinking I was home
alone. Where the hell was he? Hiding behind the door? Startled, I
drop the mail I picked up on my way into the flat, and it scatters
all over the carpet. My shoulder bag of files and papers falls with a
thump beside the bed.
“Hi, sexy,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no
denying the shiver of excitement down my spine. Amazing how he can
still do that to me, after all these months living together. “Davey,
let me at least take my bloody jacket off. It’s been like the worst
day at work, in the worst week, and I've got a load more reports to
review before I go to bed.”
He stiffens behind me: sucks in a
breath. I think it was the word “bed”. Can’t say I don’t feel
the same way myself, but my workload is very real—
“Fuck that, okay? At least for
a minute.” He tucks his chin on my shoulder and if I twist, I can
see his face. His smile is broad and delicious and there’s a
sparkle in his eye that means there’s no
fucking way he’s
going to make any allowances for my exhaustion. He’s been working
from home today, and I thought he’d want to continue on into the
evening, the same way I do when I’m in the middle of a job. Some of
his video projects take him off into a world of his own. But I should
have known better. Davey can also be easily distracted.
Tonight, it’s like he’s
charged up—I can see the excitement running through him, hear the
bubbling laughter underlying his tone, feel the increasing heat of
his body under the thin chambray shirt he’s wearing. His hands on
my shoulders just get tighter, and he pushes my jacket off my back
onto the floor. Then he slides around to my front, his face even
closer to mine, and he starts slipping the buttons of my shirt with
practiced ease. He bobs against me as he works, his lips moist and
mischievous on my collar bone.
“Oh God,” I sigh.
“No, just me,” he replies
gleefully. “Relax, now.”
When my shirt and tie are gone,
he starts loosening the button of my trousers. The fabric slides
helplessly to the floor, puddling around my ankles. Unless I step out
of it, it’s a stumble waiting to happen. Hell, he knows how my
pragmatic mind works.
So I step out of it. He crouches
down to pull down my briefs, and then levers off my shoes, peels away
my socks. I’m naked as a baby, but considerably better endowed. And
displaying it proudly. I’m wondering when to begin my protest about
wanting to know what he has in store, or to offer my plea for a
shower first, or to appeal on behalf of my own growing need to get my
hands inside his
shirt and jeans—