“What are you doing?” I breathed, my mouth hungry for his, as he continued to place teasing kisses all over my necks, ears, cheeks, and even eyelids.
“The kind of thing that requires locked doors,” he said as he pressed his hardening crotch against my hip.
He spun me around, crowding me against the wall as his hand slid down my chest and over my belt buckle until he was cupping my already stiff cock in his hand.
“Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of this moment?” Angel rasped as he nipped at my neck.
“One hundred seventy-eight days, three hours, and seven minutes?”
A small laugh huffed near my ear.
“I mean, maybe it’s been that long,” I said with great dignity. “I don’t actually know because I would never keep track of such a thing.”
“No shame in that,” he murmured. “I had to jack off in a bathroom stall before my flight, you know.”
“Was that before or after you decided to disappear?”
He tightened his grip on my dick. “You’re such a fucking brat. You disappeared on me.”
“You love it,” I said as I reached back to find his waist, hip, anything to hold on to. “God, I was so hard when I got home yesterday. But I couldn’t even do anything about it.”
He pulled on the waistband of my leopard print joggers—the only pants I’d been able to pull on today without pain shooting through my hands. I felt the tug and pull on the elastic like his hand was already inside my pants.
“Let me help,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
My head fell forward and hit the wall as his fingers pushed past the waistband and found me completely bare.
“Luca,” Angel chided, still in that low voice. “No briefs? Someone might think you were hoping for this.”
I’d skipped underwear because of the hand issue, but maybe there had been a small, infinitesimal part of me that wanted to be ready for a sexy close-up. I mean, didn’t we all do that when we knew we’d be in the same four block radius of someone who made our heart speed up? Dress to impress? Shave what needed to be shaved? Skip the meat and cheese the night before in favor of more penetration-friendly gummy bears and gin?
The minute his fingers wrapped around my shaft, I lost all sense of pride, dignity, and justice. I just rolled my forehead along the cheaply painted wall, panting as his warm grip loosely shuttled down my aching dick and then back up again. He was unfairly good at this, and you know what? I blamed art school. All those hours shaping stubborn, stiff clay and painting tiny grapes in tiny bowls to pinpoint precision. His hand was strong, certain—delicate when needed and deliciously rough every other time. He was the artist, and my body was his medium.
“Is that better?” he said, all that smoothness from earlier sounding a little rougher now, and I nodded against the wall, helpless when it came to his long, strong fingers around my aching inches. “Is that what you’ve been needing?”
“Oh God, so much,” I grunted, my eyes fluttering closed. “Yes. Yes. Please don’t stop.”
Sensation skated up all my nerve endings as his fingers tightened around me, and then, with a deft flick of his wrist, he gathered the slick precum around my tip on his palm and used it to jerk me all the harder.
My thighs were tight, my pulse thrumming. Not that I would ever admit it, even if someone strapped me to a chair and made me watch a CBS sitcom with a canned laugh track, but this was the first time since January that I’d been touched by anyone other than myself. I’d like to think it was because no one in LA was meeting my quite reasonable pansexual standards of being gorgeous, interesting, empathetic, and able to sit through at least four consecutive hours of Wife Swap reruns. But . . . maybe that wasn’t the entire truth?
Maybe the truth was that no one else was Angel Fletcher other than Angel Fletcher, and I was therefore ruined with what LA had to offer, even to such a gem as myself. Maybe the truth was that being with anyone other than Angel had felt weird and hollow and like a betrayal, and not even a betrayal to him or to the memory of what we were, but to myself, somehow. Like settling for something cheap that would only hurt me in the long run. Call it Taco Bell Syndrome.
I’d known hooking up just for the sake of hooking up when my heart was still beating for copper-brown eyes and paint-stained fingertips would only make me ache worse in the end.
“You feel so hot in my hand,” Angel whispered, biting at my neck. His other hand had curled around my hip, and I realized it was so he could hold me tight against his groin, so that he could rub himself against me, stroke his erection through his jeans against my ass. With him driving his hips against my back and his fist working me at the front, I knew I was doomed. My balls were already pulling up tight to my body, my core was already tense with that gorgeous, shimmery feeling, and I was about three seconds and another earlobe-bite away from spattering this corporate-beige wall with a very organic white.
“Angel,” I breathed as the pleasure sank its vicious claws deep into my belly and pulled. “I’m gonna—”
“Good,” Angel said fiercely, his fist tighter and faster, his own cock fucking against me through our clothes. “You owe me this. You owe me this, and so much more.”
It was too much. His hard erection wedged against my ass, his vicious fist up front.
My rough genius, my hungry artist, dry-fucking me like a comet was heading to earth and this was the last chance either of us would have to get off.
And it was so fucking hot, so wonderfully, miserably perfect, that I couldn’t even be mad at him or myself when the orgasm ripped through my body and jerked along my dick. Thick, white pulses spilled over Angel’s fist, slick and thick and wet, and they kept coming, even as Angel’s hand went still and he gave me two punishing thrusts from behind. His broken exhales in my ear and the bruising hold on my hip told me all I needed to know—he just came too. From dry-humping me in the back room of a failed knickknack store.
We both slowly went still, and I opened my eyes and dropped my gaze to see a puddle of semen on the floor between my legs.
“I feel like this is usually a front of house problem in our line of work,” I mumbled, and Angel laughed. Not his polite laugh. Not even his usual laugh. But his belly-deep giggle that only came out with the people closest to him.
My heart popped like an overinflated balloon just to hear it.
“You’re right,” he said, still laughing. “And oh my God, I’m going to need to borrow some pants from the costume department. Okay, you stay there, I’ll get us sorted out.”
After he made sure I was clean, the floor was sort-of clean, and he’d changed into a pair of extra suit pants, we sat on the little loveseat in the break room with my legs stretched out over his lap. He was re-gauzing my hands, because apparently fresh bandages weren’t a lie told by World War Two costume dramas.
“You should be able to lose the bandages in the next few days, I think,” Angel told me.
I couldn’t stop the words before they left my lips. Wit was a curse sometimes. “Oh, is that what you were doing in Paris? Your medical residency?”
“Is it always going to be like this?” he asked, glancing up at me through his heavy lashes. “You never letting me forget?”