11. Chapter 11

"Why are there recliners in your grocery store?" Bowie's British accent drifted up to me from several aisles behind. I couldn't tell if the high note in his voice was amusement or panic.

"Are you lost?" I called back without slowing my pace. I'd breezed down the wide main aisle, alongside rows of furniture, bathroom essentials, and cleaning supplies, noticing nothing but the light change in scent—acridic to faux leather—and now sped past the last home goods row towards the grocery section at the rear. I was a bachelor, not a chef, which made me a master of the one-stop-shop.

"Where are you?" His voice was getting farther. Jesus, I was going to be one of those Walmartians who had to page their family over the intercom when he got lost. "Why are there so many aisles of unrelated shit?"

"I'm not waiting!" I increased my pace into the automotive section—scents of oil and plastic—because I was curious whether Bowman's greatness with directions could get him through a super-Walmart. He was rather amazing at a lot of things, I'd learned, but even he might be overwhelmed by the vastness of American convenience.

"You can't buy groceries without me!" The high note was definitely panic now. His feet pattered against the tile behind me. Oh, my God. He was running. "Here, Kitty-Kitty!"

Jesus H, he was fucking adorable. And I wanted nothing more than to sweep him up into a big, comforting hug, tell him the scary Walmart wouldn't get him and everything would be okay. I'd found myself wanting to do that a lot lately: hug him and kiss him. Touch him, even if it was just a brush of fingers on his elbow or wrist.

Instead, I ducked out of sight down an aisle lined in bicycles and plastic helmets. Not that I was hiding exactly, but I wasn't calling attention to myself, either.

And I made no effort to stop him as he zoomed past.

But I would not laugh. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction—I snorted, clapped my hand over my mouth, and bit my tongue hard enough to hurt. He zoomed past again, wind whipping his hair. "Kitty!"

I backed slowly down the aisle.

"Jamie!" Definite panic in his voice as he flounced past one more time. "James Sul—You ass!"

He'd spotted me! Shit! A lithe, hockey-honed body hurtled towards me, blond locks tousled from all the lead changes.

I turned. And ran. My sneakers skidded as I whirled too fast around the end of the aisle, then raced down the back wall between headlights and mousetraps. Fuck he was fast! Why was he this fast off skates? I had mile-long legs and that little shit was gaining on me.

"Kitty!" he roared, and then a hard body hip-checked me into a shelf filled with bolts of fabric.

Or, well, he attempted to. Wasn't effective, given that I was taller and heavier and had, in fact, had a rather successful career as a professional defenseman known for board-rattling checks.

Instead, I wrapped an arm around him and dragged him against my side. "You were right! You are great with directions."

"You're a bad Kitty." He jabbed me in the ribs. "You would've let me die in whatever this hell place is. Just like at the Trolley Museum. And in the woods."

God, the woods. I needed to not remember the woods, not here.

"You would have been all right." I loosened my grip a bit—

Wrong move, Sullivan.

All of a sudden, he stood in front of me. His lean, athletic body pressed against mine, and his beautiful face tilted up towards me, close enough to count the stars in the constellation of freckles over his nose. That dirty grin cocked and aimed to hit in all the places it did the most damage.

Goddamn.

All of a fucking sudden, I was remembering the woods again.

Hell, the last four days, I hadn't stopped thinking about it. Not in the gym, putting him through every stretch and exercise I knew. Not in my office, fingers digging into hard muscle as he lay face-down on my table. Not alone in my bed at night, because I hadn't yet had the balls to cross that final bridge with him.

I couldn't stop thinking about how he'd folded onto his knees before me. Couldn't stop feeling his lips trail down the line of my stomach as his fingers dragged at the waistband of my pants, couldn't stop seeing the way he'd looked up at me as his mouth—

His grin widened, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone.

"You want to play dirty, Kitty?" he murmured, and his words brushed my ear and my cock at the same time. Fuck, now I was remembering what his mouth felt like. How good he'd looked on his knees. Just like I'd never forget the image of his hand wrapped around his own cock while he sucked mine—

I wanted to play dirty. I really, really did.

But not, and I cannot stress this enough, not in the middle of a Walmart. So I pried myself—however reluctantly—out of his grip. "Yeah, I take it they don't have Walmart on your side of the pond, but we're not fucking around here. There is no universe in which that's hot."

He let me go without a fight. I guess the vibe-read of Walmart was universal. Instead, he looped his arm through my elbow and gave my biceps a not-very-subtle squeeze under my T-shirt. "Fine. But I get to touch your giant, tattooed arms. And you are not going to abandon me."

"Do you need a leash?" I led him down the paint aisle. "That might be more appropriate for a Walmart."

"I thought you said we were not doing sex in the Wally?"

"Ohmygod," I groaned. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Maybe. Can you explain more about the logic behind this place?" he asked as we approached a massive crate of watermelons marking the entrance to the grocery aisle like the gates of Argonath. "And why must you have shower curtains and cucumbers in the same hundred-meter radius?"

"What if you need both?"

His eyes were big green coins. "Why, America, why?"

"Have you really never been to a super Walmart?"

He jabbed a finger towards the refrigerated meat section on the rear wall. "You have dead animals next to skipping ropes!"

"You're just being dramatic now." I rolled my eyes and worked my arm out of his grip because he was getting a little handsy with my triceps. "Are you going to make me a—what was it?"

"Sunday roast. The way my mum makes it. Banging, mate." He eyed the meat arrayed in neat, labeled rows along the back wall. "But … we trust that meat? This close to the shower curtains?"

"For fuck's sake." I wrapped my hand around his biceps—his arms were not small by any stretch of the imagination, and I definitely noticed—and dragged him across the store. "It's a hunk of meat. Pick something."

"I've picked my hunk." He winked, and I groaned loud enough that the blonde woman hunched over the lamb chops four feet away gave me a once-over that might have been interest or concern.

I was concerned, to be honest. I felt like I'd come unhinged from the normal, pressed, polished, button-down-wearing, protein-shake-sipping Doctor Sullivan. I didn't mind it, either, and that was more concerning.

"I'm going to look for carrots." I waved and stepped backwards before he re-latched. "Bye, Bowman."

I left him giving a very suspicious eyeball to a stack of hamburger meat. Maybe I should find an actual grocery store at some point. Bringing Bowie to the land of pre-packaging and convenience wasn't working out with any particular amount of convenience thus far.

I nabbed a basket abandoned at the end of an aisle—neither Bowie nor I had been able to stop giggling long enough to take hold of, let alone steer, an actual shopping cart.

Was there such a thing as grocery-cart-specific PTSD? Hopefully Bowie's roast fit in a basket; I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to handle a carriage again. And, wait, had I just considered finding a market for Bowie because I planned on regular grocery trips with him?

Why did that make my stomach feel weird and fizzy? Yes, we'd been spending a lot of time together this past month. And especially the last four days, something had shifted between us. Softened and intensified. Solidified into something … more. But what did that mean?

As I stared down into the depths of a stack of vegetables, Bowie rejoined me to heft a haunch of meat into the basket on my forearm. "Hopefully your Walmart doesn't steer you wrong. How have you survived this long on your own?"

"Good looks and charm." I tossed in two carrots and attempted to bring my awareness back to the bustling store. Instead, I tracked the proximity of his lithe body. "What's next on the list?"

He reeled off a few more items, and we stumbled through the aisles until the basket was full and Bowie balanced a pile of potatoes and a chocolate bar—"Bet it's awful"—in his arms.

Then we wound our way back through the chips to the main aisle and the front of the store—"Oh, good, pesticides! In case I needed to protect my potatoes."

"Next time, I shop alone," I sighed, and dumped the basket out onto the checkout conveyor belt. Bowie unloaded his items after mine while the cashier rang out the customer ahead of us.

"Could go to an actual market." He tucked one last item in behind the chocolate, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head.

"Is that—" I lunged, and he snatched the tube out of my reach. But I'd seen enough. My voice dropped to a hiss. "Lube?"

He shoved it under the potatoes. "No."

"Why?"

That filthy grin stretched wide. "What if I need a wank in your bathroom before dinner?"

I tilted my gaze up to the tiled ceiling far overhead. Why me? Lord, why. Me? Thank God, the cashier was preoccupied with our predecessors—would she have understood the word wank? I couldn't remember which of Bowie's British things were common and which I was used to—but my cheeks still flamed.

Bowie didn't stop. "I mean, I know I can't count on you to have it. God knows you're too uptight to ever touch yourself—"

"Oh, my God." I was dying. Burning alive from the inside out. Was I blushing? I wouldn't have considered myself a prude—Katie could go to hell—but Bowie knew how to press all the right buttons. "Have you been out in public before?"

"No, not much." His eyebrows arched upwards in almost-convincing innocence. "After I outgrew the lead, my mum stopped taking me places."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. "I can't imagine why."

He seemed to have some sense of propriety, though, because he shut up when the cashier turned to us. Actually, he beamed her one of his signature Bowie grins, and I swear she started inventing ways to get his pants off. Or at least his number.

If only she had to listen to him talk for five minutes. Two.

Back in the car, he wondered aloud how I'd survived into my latter thirties, and whether I'd noticed the detailed architecture on the trolleys at the entryway. "Do you think they'll be in the museum someday?"

"I might be too damaged to touch a grocery cart again," I admitted as I steered the Tundra through the light traffic of Downtown. The high sun set the city ablaze.

Bowie's eyes glowed, the green a breathtaking contrast to the deep blue stretched behind the towering city skyline. "Is there therapy for trolley trauma?"

"Maybe the museum has an outreach program?" I mused. I turned the truck onto my street, headed for the parking garage.

"Good thing crotchety old bachelors don't need trolleys." He beamed my way, ever so proud of that little quip.

I slid the truck into its underground parking spot. "Fuck off, Bowman."

Which, he then did, right out of my car and into the elevator.

Leaving me with the groceries. "Fuck you, Bowman."

But for some reason, I was smiling.

I could get used to this.

Specifically, to Archie Bowman, star hockey player and British phenom, in my kitchen. Cooking me dinner. He was humming and wearing a damned apron and oven mitts, for fuck's sake. The apron was goddamn pink and read Just Eat My Meat and Brady was following him around like there was no way he wasn't about to drop half a cow for her.

It was so adorable, my grumpy old soul didn't know what to do.

But I could get used to it.

I sat on a bar stool at the island, my bad leg stretched out onto the neighboring chair. Pretending I was watching football on the TV in the living room even though I was much more interested in a different sports star. Who happened to be bopping his tight ass around my kitchen to the tune of "Happy", my golden retriever shadowing his every move.

It was the home-iest my home had ever looked. Or felt. And I didn't know what to make of that. But I was pretty sure I wanted today to go on a good bit longer than it likely would.

A second tune echoed in over his humming, and when he dropped the oven mitts onto the counter to dig into the pocket of his jeans, I realized it was his phone. "Hey, Mum."

Mum?

My brain ground to a screeching halt, and the TV in the other room faded into a blur in the background. Bowie switched the phone over to speaker and set it down on the island countertop so he could re-don his mitts and tackle the pan he'd extracted from the oven. Brady wagged hopefully.

"Nah, just putting dinner in," Bowie was saying. "I'm making a roast."

"A whole roast?" The female voice was British and cheery, with that little tilt of parental concern at the end that made me think she was furrowing her brows and wondering if he was eating enough. "All for yourself?"

Or, by the sound of things, eating too much.

"I'm at Jamie's," Bowie said as he started pulling knives out of the block. My brain caught up with the conversation as his mom hummed in excitement.

I'm at Jamie's.

Which meant—

He'd told his mom about me. Before now.

"You're on speaker," said Bowie, plowing on ahead like my brain wasn't trying to rewire itself to continue functioning with this new information.

He'd told his mom about me. "Say hi to Jamie, Mum!"

"Hi, Jamie!" Mum called through the phone, and my dumb mouth flapped open before my dumb brain remembered how to tell it what to say.

"Um, hi. Mrs. Bowman."

His parents were married, right? He'd mentioned them, and all his brothers. Still, I should've gone with Ms. Or what if she didn't have the same last name?

"Oh, he's so American!" She chuckled, then raised her voice to address us both. "Please, call me Maggie. What are you two doing today?

"We're watching football," said Bowie as he chopped carrots, then dumped them into a roasting pan. "American football. That's what proper Americans do on Sunday. Brady's helping me cook."

Is that what we were doing? I couldn't remember. My brain had written out everything else going on except that we were talking to his mom, who knew about me. And my dog, evidently; she didn't ask for clarification.

"Oh, that sounds lovely. What kind of roast are you making?"

"Beef," Bowie murmured because I had forgotten the basic mechanics of verbal speech. "With Yorkshires and horseradish sauce. Jamie's never had a roast."

"Poor fella."

"Um." Did I squeak? "According to Bowie, I haven't had a proper one. So, I guess not? What, um—are you up to today?"

I was such a fucking idiot. It was night there, wasn't it?

"Oh, just catching up on rugby with the boys," she said, which piqued my sports-loving interest—until she turned the conversation back around on me. "So, you're a physiotherapist?"

"Yep. Yes. Ma'am." I swallowed. Why was Bowie side-eyeing me? Why did my tongue feel fat? "Yes, ma'am."

Why did I get the distinct impression she was on the verge of launching into a series of questions designed to determine if I was worthy of her son?

"Oh, how long have you been doing that?"

And suddenly, I really wanted to be. Worthy of the son—who'd conveniently recused himself from the conversation by being exceedingly busy picking an old burn off an oven mitt.

"Six years, ma'am." I couldn't pass my fucking business exams, but goddamn I wanted to pass the mom test. "Since I graduated."

"Mm." She was definitely weighing my answers on her approval scale—was I flunking yet? "And you live in Bringham?"

"Yes, ma'am. I own a condo near Downtown. A little south of it—walking distance." Shit, I was babbling. Chill the fuck out, Sullivan. Did Bowie giggle? Coward was still Very Busy with the oven mitt. Or was it a towel now?

"Condo? Is that American for a fancy flat? It sounds lovely," Mrs. Bowman continued. "Easy access to bars?"

"Oh. I don't drink." I winced.

Was that the correct answer? Or was she a fun mom who expected Bowie to be surrounded by fun young friends—shit I was failing, wasn't I? Why was I failing so badly? "Much. Don't drink much. I mean, I can be fun—"

"You're intimidating the poor bloke, Mum." Bowie tossed me a wink over his shoulder, and for some reason, that calmed the storm of butterflies in anxious flight inside my gut.

Until he leaned over the counter, tapped on the screen of his phone—and switched it to video.

Suddenly, I was staring at a pair of big, familiar green eyes in a not-quite-familiar face beneath a wash of strawberry blonde curls. She was Bowie.

Just, you know. More mom-ish.

"There you are!" Her mom-eyes narrowed as she took me in. Then they skated sideways, looking for Bowie, who'd turned back to the kitchen-linen-rescue service. She was not deterred. "You were right, Sausage! He is handsome."

I blushed so hard I was surprised my hair didn't catch fire from the steaming tips of my ears.

"He is, isn't he?" Bowie spun to flash me that big, beautiful shit-eating grin. And I couldn't even glare back! Because I was on camera! That cheeky little bastard—

"I'm right here," I said, crossing my arms—and then quickly uncrossing them because shit had that put my tattoos on camera? "But are you hiding? From your own mum?"

I tilted my head and flashed him a smile. A big, friendly, challenging one.

Which prompted Bowie to walk around the island and smush himself to my side.

Fuckin'A.

He leaned his elbows on the counter. "Hey, Mum."

"Oh, I like him," Mrs. Bowman murmured. And I blushed all over again. The side of my body that was pressed against Bowie's felt hot enough to melt my skin.

Bowie, naturally, turned and pinched my hip.

I squirmed sideways—then wrapped an arm around him to pull him closer. Pinning his pinch-hand against my hip bone and tucking him into my side. He melted into me. Soft and supple and pliant, like wax poured into a mold. Like we were made to fit together.

Mrs. Bowman grinned, a wide white smile that lit up her whole face—just like Bowie's. My stomach flipped a somersault, but she didn't seem to notice. "Well, you two have a romantic dinner to get to?"

"Oh, yes. Dinner." I felt Bowie's grin against my shoulder, didn't dare to steal a glance. "Roast beef. Which I'm cooking. It will be so romantic."

He straightened up, disentangling himself from me, and Mrs. Bowman sobered. "I'll let you go then. Have fun."

"Bye, Mum."

"Bye, Mrs. Bowman. Maggie." I waited for Bowie to end the call before I pounced. "Your mom knows about me?"

"Was I going to not tell her about my ridiculously hot, off-limits physiotherapist with magic hands?" He shook his head, then circled back around the island to whatever task he'd left unfinished when the oven mitts had stolen his attention. "Honestly."

"I have actually decided I don't want to know anything more on the subject. Ever." I pulled my leg off the chair to turn towards the TV, even though I had no idea what was going on in the game. "How long before dinner?"

"‘Bout an hour and a half. Do you talk to your mum often?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Couple of times a month, and I visit my parents every few months. We do not talk about my, um, love life."

Not that she didn't ask. Constantly.

"Because it's nonexistent." Bowie untied the apron from around his narrow waist. Where had he even gotten that ridiculous thing from? "What would there be to tell?"

"She'd like you," I muttered as he shuffled out of the kitchen, Brady at his heels.

Bowie's green eyes homed in on me, and I realized my mistake the moment before he spoke. "Would she? Why?"

Because he was adorable? Because who wouldn't? Because for some reason, he was a guy I had gotten close to: invited into my house, shared meals with, come completely un-fucking-done for. In more ways than with my back against a tree. She'd like him because he was a guy I wanted to stick around.

"She'd like you because I like you," I said, and his brows shot towards his hairline. Eyes went all wide and doe-y.

"You like me?"

I immediately regretted my moment of softness. "My mom would love that you cook for me. She's convinced I live off frozen dinners."

"Well, isn't she right?" He grinned that cocky grin that really shouldn't have made me so gooey inside. "Mums love me."

I rolled my eyes, trying—and failing—to bite back a smile. "It must be all your British charm and always-appropriate jokes."

"Aw, you think I'm charming?"

Behind him, Brady trotted to the living room. Apparently deciding we'd stopped being fun, she selected a particularly decrepit squirrel from her basket of toys and brought it to the armchair to more thoroughly dissect in comfort.

"I never said you were charming."

"You did." Bowie lifted the apron over his head, struggling with the ties. Oh, no; he was struggling because he was taking his navy blue T-shirt with it. Purposely or not, who knew with him.

"Is there a reason you're undressing in my kitchen?" I asked, feigning indignation like I wasn't staring hard enough to bore a hole in the taut muscle of his exposed side. God, that was a beautiful muscle, the way it cut along his ribs and over his waist. Into that narrow V that I definitely wasn't—was—looking at.

"Ask me to stop." He tossed the shirt and apron onto the back of the living room couch, then turned towards me. Giving me a full view of all the beautiful muscles of his chest. And sides. And arms. There were a lot, and I didn't have enough eyes to take it all in.

"Would you listen?"

"No." He ambled a few steps closer, drawing my gaze to the sway of his narrow hips beneath his low-slung jeans. "Sometimes, I know what's best for you better than you do, Jamie Sullivan."

I couldn't tear my eyes off him. From the cuts and curves of his honed muscles stretched under taut, golden skin. From the angle of his jaw and cheekbone, that delicate bow of his mouth, straight line of his nose, and those eyes. Those green laser-eyes that always saw through me.

And I knew he was right.

He did know what was best for me. Always had, hadn't he? From that first night at the bar, when he'd slid his fingers up my thigh and asked me to take him home.

I should've listened then.

I was glad I hadn't, because I don't know he'd have stuck around until the next morning.

And I wanted him to.

"Well, then." My words crawled out soft and slow, steady. "Maybe I should start listening to you."

"Oh, yeah?" He inched forward another step, so close my bent knees brushed his thighs. Reminded me of the bar, when he'd approached me with all that confidence, that cocky grin. All the surety in the world that I wouldn't say no to him.

This time, I wouldn't.

"So, Bowman. What's best for me right now?"

He stepped closer, pushing my knees out to slide between them. His fingertips grazed my thighs through my jeans in the lightest touch, sending shivers of heat surging up my legs, through my torso.

"I can think of a lot of things that would be good for you." He nibbled his bottom lip between his teeth like he was considering. "I could use my magic mouth on you again."

Said mouth twisted in a smirk at the insinuation, and my dick pressed against my fly in eager anticipation. Oh, I could be okay with watching him on his knees again, taking me apart inch by inch with that filthy, beautiful mouth.

"That would be very good for me," I agreed in a murmur.

He shifted closer, his hands pressing flat against my thighs. The warmth of his touch sent a hum of electricity through my body. Set every nerve afire. I fell into his green eyes, drank in his scent of generic cologne and pepperminty shampoo.

"But maybe," he murmured, "This time, you tell me what's good for you. And for me."

My fingers slid around the backs of his muscular thighs. Pulling him closer, inhaling the soft scent of his skin. "I have some ideas."

"Tell me."

Oh, I would. I had a long, long list of things I wanted to do to him.

"First." I dragged my fingers up the sides of his legs to his hips. Then along that cut line of oblique muscle, which I'd been dying to touch since he whipped his shirt off in the middle of my office. "I'm just going to look."

So, I did. Like I'd wanted to, ever since he'd walked into that bar. I looked. Admired. Drank in the sight of Archie Bowman, shirtless in my kitchen.

Fuck, he was beautiful. Perfect. In every line and curve that rose and fell beneath my fingertips. In every muscle, tendon, vein. Every freckle and scar. Perfect.

Beautiful, lean muscles defined his chest and arms, his stomach and the V-cut of his hips. He might have been thin, gangly even, if professional athleticism hadn't honed his body to a sharp edge at the intersection of power and strength. He was fucking perfect.

I wanted to lick every inch of him.

"Like what you see?" he asked. His tone was teasing, but his voice came out a little hoarse.

"Yeah, I do," I murmured, my eyes still fixed on his bare chest. "I'm going to kiss you now."

His breath stuttered as I lowered my mouth to the curve of his rounded left deltoid, the injured one. The one I'd been studying, touching, massaging, for weeks, but had never dared to kiss. His skin was velvet under my lips as I dragged them over the hard muscle, followed the slender length of his collarbone to the hollow of his throat. He smelled soft and clean, like soap and shaving cream, cheap cologne, and I breathed it greedily because it was his smell.

I pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his neck. Brushed my lips down the hard, smooth muscle of his pec. Slid my tongue out to flick over the nub of his nipple. His head tipped back, and his chest arched forward against my mouth.

A gasp escaped his lips. "Jamie."

Fuck. Heat surged through me in a wave at the desperate, pleading note in his voice. The little stutter in his breath as my tongue lapped over his warm skin had me hard in an instant.

Nothing would ever be enough. Not with him. Kissing, touching, his mouth on my cock or mine on his would never be enough. Even sex wouldn't be enough. I wanted him in ways I hadn't wanted anyone before.

And it made me want him that much more.

My fingers tightened around his hips, tugging him closer. The firm muscles and bare skin of his chest pressed against me, the heat of him seeping through the cloth of my T-shirt as I lifted my head to capture his mouth in a hard, needy kiss. He opened without hesitation. Our tongues tangled, hot and desperate.

His fingers slid up my cheeks, into my hair. When he nudged his hips forward, his hard cock rubbed mine through our jeans. And the friction—fuck. I dragged in a hiss of breath through my teeth.

I wanted bigger things from him, things I'd never wanted before, but I also really, really wanted sex. From him. Now.

Like he read my thoughts, he drove his hips into me again, and the grind against my cock set every single fucking nerve on fire. Made me groan like a dying man begging for salvation. "Bowie."

"Shirt off." His fingers caught on the cloth over my shoulders, his voice as ragged and needy as mine. "Now."

I tore the shirt over my head. Didn't see where it dropped, because his mouth collided with mine again, with that same hot, desperation as before. Tongues and teeth and desire.

His lips dipped down my neck, over my chest. Warm and soft, slow yet needy at the same time. Every brush of his mouth was an inferno of sensation. A fire in my skin.

His lips lingered over a swirl of ink looped across my shoulder and halfway to my nipple. "Fuck, I love this. It's so hot."

His voice, holy shit, that voice. That soft British accent—telling me I was hot, no less—was going to be my undoing. I never wanted him to stop talking.

"Yeah?" My words were sandpaper in comparison, scraping out of my throat in a growl. "Tell me more."

"The ink, the muscle, everything," he sighed against my skin. "You're so fucking hot."

Oh, my God. The way he talked. Somehow, he'd made me forget everything except the hard body against mine. The soft cadence of his voice. The green of his eyes as they flicked up to meet my gaze. How my body melted into his and his lips felt like fire as they trailed down another line of ink.

More.

I leaned in closer to nibble the shell of his ear, and his answering moan against my pec went straight to my cock. Jesus, that sound. My hands dropped down his sides to grip his ass, rock him against me because I needed him to make that noise again. Needed him to gasp. Tip his head back. Just like that.

Fuck, yes.

"You like that?" I whispered against his ear.

"Yes," he moaned, and I lifted my mouth to his. Our tongues slid together, soft at first, but quickening. Turning frantic. Needy. Desperate. He rocked his hips into me as we kissed. Again. Again. Again, until my cock ached against the unforgiving zipper of my jeans.

All of it—that delicious friction, his little moans, his warm skin and soft tongue—all of it was too much and not enough. I needed to touch him, taste him, bury myself in him. I needed him. All of him.

I lifted my right hand to trace it along the waistband of his pants. Dragging another fragile gasp from between his lips as I slid over the bones of his hip, reached the light trail of hair on the front of his firm stomach, leading me down.

"Now," I murmured against his still mouth. "I'm going to touch you."

"Please," he moaned. My fingers slipped the button of his jeans, tugged the zipper down over the hard bulge of his cock.

Do you want to touch me, Kitty?

Yes. I did. And I would.

I brushed my fingers down the outside of his underwear, the cloth damp under my thumb as I slid it down over the head of his cock.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, in that same desperate little voice I'd first heard through the door of the bathroom. And I couldn't—fuck. My hand flattened down over that firm cock, cupping him through the cloth. Like he'd done to himself that day.

It was my turn to touch.

I slid my hand down the line of his cock, reveling in the feel of him against my fingers, watching the flutter of his lashes as his head tilted. He felt so good—right. Perfect. Just like I'd imagined, and yet a thousand times better.

He bit his bottom lip and arched against me, bucking his hips to drag his cock over my fingers. Trying to claim friction I hadn't given. Because he wanted me, like I wanted him.

I couldn't resist him anymore.

"I'm going to blow you now," I murmured, right before I slid out of the chair. I guided him back against the kitchen counter, and I dropped to my knees in front of him. To worship him like I should have done the first time he'd asked.

I wouldn't make the mistake of resisting him again. Never again.

I slipped my fingers into the waistband of his underwear, dragged the elastic down his hips and thighs to expose his cock. I'd noticed he was uncut when he'd knelt in front of me, stroking himself. Pleasuring himself to me. I hadn't had the time and attention to look.

Now, I could admire him up close. Now, he was mine, to do with what I wanted. To touch and taste and please. However I wanted.

I lapped my tongue against the head, drawing another beautiful little, oh fuck from his beautiful little mouth. My own untouched, needy cock dug into my zipper, begging for attention. But how could I pay any attention to myself when I wanted to give all of it to him? I'd finish way too fast, anyway, and I needed to last longer than that.

There were so many fucking things I wanted to do to him.

Starting with this cock. I eased his foreskin down a little and dragged my tongue across the precum gathering over the slit, then sucked the crown into my mouth. Lapped at that sensitive spot under the ridge, because fuck when he moaned like that.

I could have come from listening to those tiny, desperate sounds. From watching his tight abdomen rise and fall with shallow, needy breaths. From the way his fingers wove through my hair, like he was anchoring himself to me.

I took him deeper, and those fingers tightened against my scalp. "Fuck, Jamie."

He was literally going to make me come just talking. Part of me wanted to let it happen. Like back at the lake, but reversed. Me on my knees this time, jacking myself while I sucked him into oblivion, hot and desperate and fast. It would feel so fucking good to give in to him.

I took him all the way to the root, thinking about it. Loving the way he felt in my mouth, against my throat. Loving the tension of his fingers in my hair, the desperate twitch of his hips. I could get us both off like this, and it'd be so fucking good.

But I wanted more.

All of him. I wanted all of him.

I pulled my mouth from his cock. Replaced it with my hand. Kissed my way up the hard ridges of his abs, making his breaths quicken as my fingers rubbed over his shaft in light, slow, almost teasing strokes. I tucked my thigh between his legs and stood, cornering him against the counter. At my full height, I towered over him.

He tilted his head back to observe me through half-lidded, lust-darkened eyes. The want in those eyes was so unmasked, raw. For me. Like I was the one making him come undone and not the other way around. I wanted to take him apart, piece by piece. Licking and kissing and sucking.

I dipped my head to press my mouth to his, suck that curved lower lip against my tongue. My hand bobbed along his shaft, keeping the desire between us honed to a knife's edge because I wanted him to need me in the same desperate way I needed him. Like a flame that would burn me from the inside out if I didn't get him. Soon.

I rocked forward to rub my cock against the outside of his hip. Even through my jeans, that delicious, tantalizing friction dragged a groan out from deep inside me, sent my hand pumping faster over him. More.

"Bowie," I moaned against his mouth. "Can I fuck you? Please?"

"Yes. Yes." The words tumbled out of his parted lips between panted breaths, and it was all I needed. My hands gripped his ass to lift him against me, because I was going to bring him into my bedroom, toss him onto my king-sized bed, and wreck him. In all the best possible fucking ways.

Neither of us could be the same after this, that much I knew.

"No," he moaned, pushing back before I got him into my arms, wrapped his legs around me. Before I could start the wrecking.

"What? What's wrong?" Panic flooded my brain at the sudden reversal. What had I done wrong, how had I—

"Here," he said, chest still heaving, words breathy, those eyes so fucking dark and sexy as he stared up at me. Clear needwritten into every line of his face. "I want you to fuck me right here. In the kitchen."

Fuck. Holy fuck. I was breathing way too hard, and I needed to be inside him. "Why the kitchen? Bed would be—"

"Because I like your kitchen."

"Okay." I couldn't argue. I'd never fucked anybody in my kitchen, and all of a sudden, I desperately wanted to fuck Bowie here. "Let me get some lube."

"Here." He reached onto the counter behind him, swiped something off the glossy stone top. Shoved it into my hand. "Done."

I would have laughed, except I was so fucking turned on I didn't have enough spare brain cells to process the irony. Had he planned to take advantage of me in my kitchen all along? I didn't know. Didn't care. "Fuck, condoms."

"I'm clean. You've seen my records."

"Right."

"And you haven't had sex in twelve hundred years."

I slammed my mouth against his to shut him up. "Take your pants off."

He was already shimmying out of his jeans. I snagged the elastic of his underwear and dragged them down his hips in the wake of his pants because time was of the essence.

Together, we got his clothing kicked to the floor in a puddle of discarded cloth.

Then, Archie Bowman, star hockey player and British phenom, stood in my kitchen. Naked. I'd been upgraded.

"Fuck." I let my eyes drag slowly over him for a moment, because he was so, so fucking beautiful. Those lean, muscular calves, powerful thighs, his cock standing at attention. The ridges of his abs, those glorious obliques, and yes, that cocky, beautiful dirty fucking smirk.

All of it—all of him—was mine right now, all mine.

I surged into him, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, skin to skin, tongues tangled. My legs between his, my cock pressed into the bone of his hip. His fingers clawed at the waistband of my jeans, trying to get my button undone, but I scooped him up under his ass and set him on the stone countertop.

Perfect. The perfect height.

"Kitty," he panted, still pawing at my pants. "Please get naked for me."

"Not yet." I slid my lips down his throat and pulled him towards the edge of the counter, widening the V of his legs against me. "I want to get you ready for me first."

Because once I undressed, it would be hard and fast and heavy. No stopping. I pried the top off the lube.

"You're such a tease," he groaned as I dragged slicked fingers down his cock and over the curve of his balls. He leaned back onto his hands to give me better access. "Do you know how long I've wanted to see you nak—oh hell."

My finger slid across his hole. His breathing turned shallow again as I brushed along the rim, then pressed inside. Holy fuck, he was so tight. How was he so fucking tight? My cock pulsed against my jeans in anticipation, because, shit, if he was this tight for one finger, what was he going to feel like to all of that?

I wouldn't last a full minute inside him.

"Jesus, Bowie," I murmured. I pressed in deeper, and he whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Just thinking about how he'd feel clenched around me was making me wild, bringing me too close to the edge. My words came out in a rasp. "Ready for more?"

"So ready," he groaned. So I slid in another finger, stretching him out more. He tipped his head back in that too-sexy way I couldn't get enough of, clamped his lower lip between his white teeth, and moaned. His hips rocked against the counter, nudging me in deeper as he fucked himself on my fingers.

I wouldn't even make it inside him if he kept doing that.

I pressed in a third finger, pulling another filthy moan out from him as I pumped, as he rocked and rocked. Bringing us both closer to that edge, making me almost frantic to fuck before things got any more heated. Before it was too late and I came in my damn pants.

I needed him. No more foreplay.

"Are you ready?" I moaned into his ear as I pushed my fingers in again. Deeper, opening him up. Please be ready for me. "I'm going to fuck you now."

"I'm ready." His words were breaths. "So. Fucking. Ready."

I didn't take my fingers out of him while I ripped open the button of my jeans left-handed. Kept pumping as I yanked the fly down, clawed my underwear down my hips to free my cock.

I pulled out of him to reach for the lube. His eyes drifted down as I curled my slickened fingers over my shaft, hissing at the contact against the hard, tight skin. His gaze seared with heat.

He stared.

I burned.

"So hot," he murmured, watching my hand as I stroked. "Must have killed you when I was doing that in the bathroom of your office."

"Yeah." I watched him watch me. Burning under his gaze, under my own touch. With the memory of him stroking himself on his knees in front of me. "Now stop talking because I would like to fuck you."

I crushed my mouth to his, tugged him to the edge of the counter until my cock met his ass. He leant back onto his hands again, opening himself up to me until my crown pressed against the rim of his hole. My fingers on his hips pulled him closer. I was panting, maybe shaking. Sweating, desperate, needy. I needed him.

So fucking badly.

He wrapped a leg around my hip and tugged me close. Pulling me in. I moaned as I pushed inside him. Slowly, so slowly. He was so fucking tight, like I knew he would be. The warmth and heat an embrace, one I'd never get enough of.

"You feel so fucking good," I whispered, staring into those green eyes. "So. Fucking. Good."

"More," he pleaded, locking his legs around me.

I obeyed, pushing in, pulling him closer, inch by slow inch. Took every ounce of willpower not to slam into him, hard and fast. Not to wreck him the way I wanted. But more than that, I wanted this to last. I wanted to keep breathing in the scent of him, clutching his hips as I dragged him onto me. Feeling the tight squeeze of him around my cock. Watching those green eyes darken with desire, his mouth round into a perfect O of pleasure.

Everything. All of him.

"Oh fuck," he said as I nudged in deeper, all the way. Every inch of me inside him. "Oh, my God. Yes."

I rocked into him, slow and soft at first, finding our rhythm, pulling tiny moans from his throat. But I'd used up my resistance. Between those eyes, staring down between us to watch as my cock slid into his ass, and those filthy groans, and how fucking tight he still was around me, I couldn't hold back anymore.

My hips bucked against him, slamming me in deep. Hurtling me towards release with compounding speed. Sweat beaded my hair, slipped down my forehead, and breath wracked my lungs. He wrapped his legs tighter, pulling me in closer, further, bringing us together.

"I'm so fucking close," I panted. My fingers drifted down the hard planes of his abs to his cock. "Will you come for me, Archie?"

I wound my hand around him. Slid it up along his shaft.

"Oh, fuck." His hips jerked up towards my fingers. His head tilted back. My cock drove into him. "Oh, fuck, Jamie."

His release spilled over my hand and across his chest.

And I was gone.

I plunged over the edge into fucking bliss. Into outer space and stars. Into dizzy head-rush and moans and spasmic hip-thrusts of ecstasy as I milked every last bit of pleasure out. I pulled him towards me to set my forehead against his, both of us sweating, panting, trying to come back down to earth.

Not that I wanted to. Ever. I didn't have words to express what had just happened, how I felt. My body was spent, in every muscle and fiber of my being. And when Bowie softened against me, I thought maybe he felt the same.

Sated. Fucked-out. Satisfied.

In a way I'd never been before.

I pressed my lips to his forehead. "That was …"

He started babbling before I found something affectionate to say. "I know you're old and have to probably wait like forty-eight hours before having sex again, but I will wait if you'll do that again, because holy fuck that was even better than I imagined. And I imagined it like … a lot. A lot. More than any person should? A concerning amount—"

"Oh, my God." I groaned, laughed. Tipped my cheek against his forehead and groaned again. "How is it possible to be so fucking sexy and so not sexy at the same time?"

"Specialty of mine." His green eyes sparkled with amusement, and the cocky grin crept over his face. "What do you think are the odds of doing that again in under forty-eight hours?"

I gave in to the laugh building in my chest. "Really good. Like, really, really good odds. Extremely good. Even better if you spend the night?"

The last came out as a question, and the laugh died on my lips. Sudden, strange butterflies danced through my stomach. Nerves. What if he had no desire to stay with me? I hadn't had a guy sleep in my bed in years—

I shouldn't have worried.

Nod. Emphatic nod. Very emphatic. "Yes. Absolutely. Please. And then we fuck again. Many times."

I laughed. Again. "Yes, but first, weren't you making me dinner?"