Page 129 of Reckless Hearts
My feeling of contentment fades. Because I recognize the ringtone—the opening bars of “Money, Money, Money’” by ABBA. It’s Jake.
Marcus leaves the room, and I continue to make dinner, but my hands tremble as I pour the batter into the pan, causing uneven fritters. The sizzle of the fritters seems too loud in the sudden silence.
Marcus returns to the room, his jawline tense. He leans against the doorframe, the fading sunlight casting shadows that accentuate his perfect features.
“What did Jake want?” I ask.
“He’s just lined me up a shoot for a new Calvin Klein campaign.” Marcus tries to smile, but it dies on his lips.
“I have to get back before filming forHorizonstarts anyway,” he continues.
“When is the shoot?” I ask in a low voice.
“Wednesday.”
Wednesday. Four days from now.
The pain is sharp and brutal.
“Seb,” Marcus says.
But I move the frying pan off the element, switch off the stove, and crowd into his space so I can kiss him.
Maybe it’s a way of stopping myself from saying everything I want to say.
This kiss is raw and almost feral, a clash of teeth and tongues. Marcus matches my intensity, fingers digging in, grasping at clothing, hair, anything to keep us anchored in this moment and not thinking about the future.
We stumble backward. Marcus’s back hits the wall with a thud. I pull at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
We break apart just long enough to yank our shirts over our heads. The moment we’re chest to chest, every one of my nerve endings fires, overwhelmed by the sensation of Marcus’s warm skin pressed against mine. I run my hands over Marcus’s sculpted torso.
Our kisses are messy, uncoordinated, punctuated by gasps and half-formed words.
His lips find my neck, and I arch into him as he sucks. I scrape my fingernails up his back.
It’s like we have a primitive need to mark our territories, to imprint ourselves on each other’s flesh. To leave visible reminders that we belong to each other.
To block out all those looming days ahead when we’re not together.
I’ve had Marcus to myself for three weeks. And it has left me greedy for more. Greedy to continue to have him as part of my day-to-day life. Greedy to have him all of the time.
My cock throbs painfully against the constraints of my shorts, begging for attention.
“Need you,” I gasp. And I’ve never meant those words before as much as I do them now.
I scan the kitchen, spotting the olive oil on the counter, and I lean over to grab it, nearly knocking it over in my haste.
Marcus’s eyes are glazed over with lust. He spins me, caging me over the counter, yanking down my shorts and boxers in one go.
And then he’s pressing an oil-slicked finger into me, but I reach back to knock his hand away.
“Just you,” I gasp.
Marcus understands my meaning.
He lines his cock up, teasing me with just the tip, making me whimper with need.
But I’m not in the mood for teasing.
