Page 105 of The Lineman

“You’re so deep inside me, El. I can feel you. God, I want you to live inside me, baby.”

“I want to fill you up so bad, make all of you mine, Mike.”

“El . . . I can’t . . . fuck me . . . I’m coming.”

The first rope of white flew from my cock, smearing across my chest.

“Elliot!”

I shattered, my body arching, pleasure crashing through me in a raw, consuming wave. I let out a wrecked, needy moan, my whole body shaking with it.

His growls became a roar of pleasure. “I’m coming, babe. I’m right there with you. Feel me inside you, shooting my hot load up your ass. Feel me loving you so damn much.

”The last shot fired, my rational brain struggled to catch up. Had he said he loved me so damn much? Had I dreamed that part?

“Oh, shit, Mike. I’m about to—agh! Shit! Fuck me!”

His phone fell to the bed, and his grunts and groans became muffled, but there was no question what was happening. Elliot was exploding all over his hotel bed.

I let my head sink into my pillow and tried to steady my breathing. My mind was doing that Tasmanian devil spinning thing, so fast I could barely keep up.

A moment later, a silky, sultry, utterly satisfied voice said, “That was so good, Mike.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, the need pressing deep into my bones now. “Wish you were here.”

Elliot cursed under his breath. “You have no fucking idea what I’d do to you if I was there.”

I chuckled, though it took effort. “I have some idea. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

The only sound for a moment was breathing.

“I miss you, Mike.”

I swallowed past the tightness in my chest.

“Miss you, too,” I murmured. “Hurry home, okay?”

We stayed on the line, just breathing together, until sleep finally pulled me under.

Chapter twenty-nine

Elliot

I’dspenttwoweeksin Florida, but it felt like a lifetime.

The devastation Hurricane Beatrice left behind had been worse than anything I’d seen in years. Whole neighborhoods had been swallowed by floodwaters, as roads were carved apart by wind and rain, and power poles twisted like paperclips. It was the kind of disaster that didn’t just knock out power—it changed lives.

And we’d worked like hell to bring some of that back.

Day after day, we’d pulled downed lines from broken trees, trudged through waist-high water to get to blown transformers, cut our way through the wreckage with nothing but brute strength and sheer stubbornness. The sun had been relentless, beating down on us as if it hadn’t just spent days hiding behind a storm. I returned to our hotel every night with aching muscles, sweat-drenched clothes, and hands too tired to do anything but grip a fork long enough to shovel food in my mouth before collapsing into bed.

It had been hard, grueling work, the kind that drained every ounce of energy—both physical and emotional—I had.

And yet, in every quiet moment, in every exhausted breath I took—I thought about him.

About Mike.

And it didn’t make sense.

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