Page 113 of Hamartia
He comes toward me and slides his hand around my waist, his eyes turning mischievous.
“Nothing?” He raises an eyebrow. “Like nothing at all.” His hands begin to fumble with the button on my jeans and then he’s dropping to his knees, head upturned as he licks his lips showily. “Hmm, what about this…? Like, as a thank you?”
“Raphael there are two men next door. You cannot be serious…”
“Baby, they could barely look at your extremely famous face, you seriously think they’re gonna come into your bedroom?”
I begin to protest again but then his mouth is over the fabric of my underwear and he’s…sucking. Hot, wet loud kisses along the length to the tip that feelsogood. I gasp, sliding my hands into the lengths of his hair.
“Okay…then you will have to be very quick.” I am panting a little as I bite down on my lip.
He smirks. “Andyouwill have to be very fucking quiet…” And then he’s pulling down the white material and swallowing me down almost entirely. I cover my mouth to stifle my cry of pleasure.
“Ithink I’m going to explode,” I tell him, sitting back in the chair with a pained groan.
I’ve eaten my body weight. I think my stomach is about ready to rip open and there’s still a mountain of food on the table.
He’s still eating. Which is a wonder really given his frame. He’s been eating turkey and mashed potato and creamed corn with chopsticks and I’ve been struggling to think of anything as fascinating or as fucking adorable.
“It’s fine. We can eat it later. Or tomorrow,” he says around a mouthful of gravy covered mashed potato.
I nod and lift my wine, watching him over the rim. He’s wearing this oversized cardigan thing, his face bare and scrubbed clean from the shower we took earlier, and his hair fluffy and soft-looking. I’m pretty sure this is my favorite version of him. When he’s like this. Unwound and soft.
Although…the sight of him coming down my throat is a close second. And the sight of him on his knees with his eyes closed in bliss as he mouths at my cock, like he had in the shower, a very close third.
I’m smiling about this as he looks up and catches my eye and smirks, like he knows where my mind is. He lifts his wine and sips at the red slowly, letting it darken and wet his lips.
“So what do you normally do after eating?” he asks.
“At home, we’d normally lie on the couch in a food coma and watch some TV. My mom will normally find a British period film to watch—they’re her favorite.”
The fact that I haven’t heard from my mom yet is weird, but she runs about crazy on Christmas day ferrying people around and cooking so she’ll call me later.
“British period film?”
“Yeah, you know. Those ones where women just sit about in rooms drinking tea and talking. ‘Oh, they only have six thousand a year, Miss Havisham! He’s such a scoundrel, Elinor!’”
My attempt at an English accent isn’t that bad, but he’s bent over and laughing at it anyway. His hand covering his mouth as his shoulders shake with soft giggles.
“Is that what you want to do now?” he asks, when he’s stopped laughing.
“I wanna open our gifts.”
His eyes light up and then he’s nodding, before jumping up from the dining table and rushing out of the room while I can only blink after him.
“Should I follow you? “ I call out after him. “Is my gift in the bedroom?”
I hear him laugh. “No, there is one in my suitcase that I did not send with the others.”
I’m hoping his are also shit because I really don’t feel good about some overpriced earrings and an unfinished song right about now. Not after everything else he’s done today. Maybe I can make it up to him with my mouth or my dick, fuck maybe even my ass if it goesthatbadly.
While he’s in the bedroom, I fill our wine glasses and carry them to the living room. I’d put his under the tree earlier, and my phone is charged and the backing track ready to play. I can only hope my mom doesn’t call while I play it for him.
I take a small second to consider how fucking cheesy it is. Writing him a song. I’ve never done it in my life, not for Camille, not for any girl. And there’s a reason why. It makes me want to throw myself off a bridge from embarrassment. But I wrote it for him, about him, and there are more where that came from too, so I suppose I need to know how it will make him feel before I do it again.
In the livingroom, he’s setting a small parcel on top of two larger ones by the tree. One of the parcels is big, a large rectangular shape that’s not much smaller than him, another about quarter that size, and then a small thin one on top of that. All are wrapped in silver paper that glints in the low light.
My cheeks heat as I reach down for the Chanel bag I’d hidden near the back, turning to him. He looks at me, then looks at the parcel in my hand, and then beams wide.
