Page 55 of A Sorrow of Truths

“I’m not happy that you’re so happy about not being with me,” he snips, taking hold of two glasses. “Could you at least attempt to be miserable about this separation?”

“I am with you. I’m also with me.” I pour two full glasses and take mine from him, near falling back onto a still plastic covered sofa. “Me is a very important person, Gray. And I need recuperation time from you.”

He snorts and sits on a chair opposite, taking his jacket off and slinging it as if he owns the place. “How is your ass?”

“Surviving.”

Just.

“Strip and show me.”

“No. I have unpacking to do.”

“Jackson can do it. We have a date.”

“We do?”

“We do. In-” He checks his watch. “One hour. Get changed.”

“Into what?”

“Couldn’t care less, but you can start with naked.” He stares over the top of his glass, an arch in his brow that I know all too well these days and a half smile that tells me whatever is coming could be painful. My eyes roll, body rising slowly. “Or you can look in the bag.” I take a step over, looking at the mysterious bag that’s by him on the floor. “When you tell me who the flowers are from.”

I shrug and grin. “It’s no one you know.”

“That’s becoming annoying.”

“Oops.”

He’s up and coming at me before I have time to react successfully, his hands grabbing at me as I scream, turn and try bolting for the bedroom. My heels trip over the damn rug I haven’t laid out yet, body almost falling but for the strong grasp around me. I’m lifted, carried and then thrown. Thankfully, the soft swathes of an unmade bed catch my landing rather than the floor, and I twist immediately to look for him in the dark. He’s pulling his tie from his shirt, buttons being popped just as quickly.

“How’s your mouth?” he asks, smiling.

“What?”

“As a hole? Pained?”

“No.”

“Good. Perhaps I can fuck the secret out of that then.”

“That’s dirty talk, Mr Rothburg.”

His knees hit the bed, body crawling across mine and tugging me down to him. “Well, we’re good at that. Start talking. Make it sordid. I’m feeling frisky.”

“Frisky? Where the hell has frisky come from? First oops, and now frisky?”

“I’m a changed man.”

“I hope not.”

Not entirely anyway.

A chuckle comes out of him, long and low, as he drops his head to my chest and starts opening the buttons of my dress slowly. One pops, and a kiss lands on my skin. Another button, and another kiss. The third, and he bites delicately.

My head lolls back, enjoying the feel of some softness after the handling I took last night. It won’t last. I can already feel the hard ridges of him becoming heavier, the teeth less delicate and more cutting with each new button popped. I don’t care. I enjoy it. Always have with him. It’s what we are, what we have been, and what we will continue to evolve into. It doesn’t matter the bed we’re in, or the country or venue.

Hard and heavy, focused and connected.

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