Page 101 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
“Sebastian...” Luke murmurs behind me, and he clutches hold of my body, as if he might fall off.
His athletic thrusts are focused and perfect, hitting my prostate in the way I like. If we hadn’t just had sex hours before, I might explode. But we did have sex, and I try to control myself. Because I want this to continue forever. I want to always feel him inside me, I want to always hear breathless admiration when he refers to me, I want to pretend this is our life. That we are people who sleep beside each other. That this is normal, and not stolen from our lives, that our worlds would not collapse if people realized what we were doing.
His steady thrusts turn unsteady, and my cock quickens.
I’m going to come.
I’m so going to come.
“Sebastian,” he says again, his voice so filled with admiration and something raw that almost sounds like something I cannot, must not allow myself to think about.
Because this is not that. This is nothing that begins with L, and we are not giving each other anything that begins with H.
His thrusts grow from steady to frenzied. “God. Sebastian.”
Heat blazes through me, and I’m sure, through him. His warm cock pounds over my cluster of nerve endings again and again and again.
Luke no longer wears his Mr. Right tuxedo, he no longer stands before cameras in his journalist-appropriate suit. He no longer represents polished perfection, the man everyone adores, the man his company pays millions to each year.
Now he is all man, all animal, the man only I can see.
Frantic and wild and so achingly gentle and lo—, well, not that obviously. But he is tender and sweet, even when I feel the full force of his body. I am filled and cherished. I am completed in a way that is only temporary, but which makes my heart thrash madly, as if it has found something precious and I can’t inform it that it is just something temporary, something forbidden, something we shouldn’t be risking.
I smile. Neither Luke nor I ever did particularly well in our high school. Another thing we have in common perhaps.
Then he stutters behind me. His pants are more uneven, and he jerks frantically within me. I climax at once.
We shake together, desperate for air, unwilling for these moments to end, to be replaced by real life and all the unpleasantness it entails. When I will have to leave his apartment and tell a lie about where he was, when he will have to pretend to Troy I never was here.
It’s fine. We had these moments, and they were everything. They were more than I could have hoped for, and he gave them to me. I will remember them forever and ever and ever. I am happy. Totally.
He wraps his strong arms around my waist, and we collapse together to the side, our bodies curled in the fetal position. He remains inside me. He presses kisses to the nape of my neck and plays with my hair, running his fingers through it and massaging my scalp, so the world grows warm and wonderful again.
At least for now. Finally, he pulls himself from me and deposits the condom. The air smells like sex. It smells of masculinity and sweat. He turns off the light, then climbs over me, like he’s done so a thousand times before, then pulls me toward him. I place my hands over his fingers, still verifying he is there, feeling the swoops of his knuckles, until sleep takes us both.
The alarm doesn’t come from our room.
The loud 80s music isn’t something I’ve heard Luke express an interest in, but now its fast-paced booms fill the room. At some point in the night, I must have flipped over, my mind preferring to be as close to Luke’s face as possible, though possibly he manhandled me and moved me himself.
Either way, I see the moment when Luke’s lashes flicker up. I see the moment where his groan from the blaring alarm turns to wonder. I see the moment the skin outside his eyes crinkle, and I see the moment where his lips swerve up.
“Hello.” Luke’s tenor voice says.
“Hello,” another tenor voice answers back from the other side of the wall, and Luke tenses. We turn toward the wall.
Troy is on the other side. Did he hear us last night?
I hope not. We whispered, right? We’re fine, right?
My heart lurches, fear replacing all the joy, and I hope I am correct.
Luke presses his lips together, and I hate the worry in his eyes. I hate the way he moves his arms away from me, and I hate the way he rolls away. The mattress dips after inch after new inch separates us, until he has moved all the way across the king size bed. He practically lurches from the bed, and the thud of large athletic body resounds through the room, up the high-ceilings to the crown molding, to the crystal knobs on the doors, and the large glass windows and their centuries-old panes.
“You okay?” Troy asks.
“I’m fine,” Luke squeaks.
I frown.
