27. Drew

Ihaven't minded being bent over—or having my back to Olivier the four times we've fucked. I needed to get used to how it felt to have someone inside me. But I don't want him to get too used to it. While my ass has learned that it desires—even craves penetration, my ego demands control. Especially over this spoiled, rich, beautiful prince of a man.

I lie back, lift my balls, and present my hole to him. "Lube it up," I say.

His hazy eyes blink, and he grabs the lube from the other side of the bed where he left it last night.

I watch every move he makes while he squirts a glob of lube onto his fingers and reaches down to prep my ass. I lick my lips, and swallow, not wanting him to see how a touch that light makes me want to gasp and beg. But it feels so fucking good. "Shove some in," I say, keeping my voice low and steady.

He meets my gaze, and two fingers slide inside me. His brow furrows with barely repressed agony—his eyes all but rolling back in his head as I clench on him. I love to see it.

"Tell me how I feel."

"You're burning hot. So fucking hot," he breathes, working his fingers back and forth to slicken his way. I sink lower on the bed, flexing my hips to make the angle better for us both.

"Drew…" he sighs, fingers still fucking me slowly.

"Whose hole is this?" I ask. It's a test.

"Yours."

He passed.

"Good boy. Now, feed it your cock. It's hungry."

Olivier groans, breathing heavy as he adjusts himself with his hips between my thighs and his hands on my chest. He glides inside me on one smooth stroke that makes us both groan. "You're gonna wreck my dick, aren't you?"

I nod.

"Yeah…Yeah," he says, pulsing faintly inside me.

I tighten my ass, and he sucks in a breath. "How's that feel?" I ask, doing my very best to stay cool and not show him he's about to wreck me, too, just from how illicitly good he feels.

"Like you're sucking my cock." His voice is strained as he stares down between our bodies.

"You gonna fuck me now?" I ask. "Make me come?"

"Yes," he says, but doesn't move.

"What's the hold-up?"

"Trying not to come, Drew. Shut the fuck up for a second."

"Feels that good in my ass, huh?"

"Yeah," he gasps, nails digging in.

Olivier moves his hips in one slow, experimental thrust, and I adjust myself again to take him deeper. His pubic bone presses against my balls, and it sends a thrill of hyperawareness through my groin. "Again," I growl. I've had a deep voice since I was fifteen, but when he puts that cock in my ass, I'm a snarling caveman, every sound coming from somewhere far beneath my diaphragm.

His next slow thrust smashes my cock between our abs, sticky with drying precum from the frotting I gave us minutes ago. I haven't spilled so much pre-ejaculate since I was a teenager, but around him it's like the factory is up and running again. Everything he does—even when he's being a complete prick, turns me on.

He fucks into me again, and then again, and I grin smugly instead of throwing my head back and moaning like I want to, like I would if I weren't trying to show him I'm not as easy for him to please as I actually am. Maybe it's a stupid game, but I'm having fun.

"Does it feel good?" he asks.

"I'll tell you if it doesn't. Keep going, rich boy. Show me how you make all the ladies come."

He nods, and the look on his face is so earnest, I want to bruise his mouth with mine. Suck my mark onto his plump lower lip, but I grimace to hold back the urge.

His cock thoroughly and repeatedly stuffs my hole. His balls on my ass go from tapping to slapping. He picks up force and speed, and I taunt him. "You think I can't take it? You going easy on me, Peach? I wouldn't go easy on you, and you know it."

With one hand, he grabs my shoulder, using it as leverage to slam himself inside, and he effectively shuts me the fuck up.

"Unh!" I grunt, my neck finally giving in to the need to arch. He elicits the same noise from my gut over and over with one snap of his hips after another.

My dick jerks between our flexing abs. Without taking my feet off the bed, I hitch my knees up slightly more to take as much of him as I can get. I grip him by the throat and keep my other hand on his hard-working ass.

"Drew, I'm so fucking close."

I give him a noisy spank. "No, you're not. Keep fucking me. Harder."

He makes a stressed, whining sound, but pounds me deep. Digging my hand into his firm flesh, I add the force of my pull to his thrusts—using him like he's a high-end sex toy. Very high end. Even naked, sweating, and flushed from head to toe, he looks as expensive as this penthouse—as this antique, million-dollar bed we're debauching.

I put his cock through its paces, using all the well-trained muscles in my own ass to milk and squeeze him, force him not to hold back. It's having the desired effect, because every word out of his mouth sounds like a prayer for mercy or a curse on his fate. "Christ. Drew. Fuck. Shit. God."

And then he's begging. "Please… I need to come…please…" And then the low blow. "You're hurting me—it hurts."

I slap his ass again, slamming him deep inside me, holding him there where I clamp down hard enough to snap his cock in half. He cries out. My hole is so sensitized I'm able to feel the pulse on the underside of his shaft on my rear wall. He's balanced on the sharpest edge, and I ask him, "You want me to stop?"

"Please." His head falls to my shoulder. "I need to come."

"Not until I do," I say viciously.

His body responds automatically even as he whimpers pathetically against my skin. His hips roll through several, deep, shortened thrusts, but more importantly, he works the muscles of his core into a heavy grind on my compressed cock.

The effect this has on me is mind-blowing. One second, I'm smirking, the next I'm the one about to beg for mercy. Praise spills from my lips. "That's it. Oh, fuck yeah, like that. Good fucking boy. Perfect. You know exactly what I need, Peach. So good. Jesus Christ… You're so good."

Olivier makes a helpless noise, and heat pours into me. All of it, the cum, the strained cry ripping from his throat, the friction between us—has me spilling right behind him.

I grip him tight, arms banding, one around his back, the other around his ass, holding him inside and tightly to me while my dick erupts between us.

He's still coming violently, jerking in my arms and spasming in my channel. He's leaving a perfect impression of his teeth on my deltoid while we're both wracked with the powerful orgasmic waves of an epic fucking release.

It's several minutes before our muscles relax and even more before he's softer and my ass unclenches enough for him to slide out of me. Not gonna lie, I don't like how empty it feels when it's over, even if I don't mind so much the way his warm cum sliding through my crack makes me shiver.

He remains on top of me. We're both soaked with sweat. "You okay?" I ask.

"Uh-huh…" He digs his face into my neck. "I learned my lesson."

I chuckle, running my hand over his sweaty hair. "You're an unbelievably good lay, if that helps soften the blow."

I feel his lips curve against my neck. "Told you."

"Yeah, you did."

"It's so much better with you," he says.

His unfiltered words feel like darts hitting my heart.

I'm not sure I like the feeling, and I'm even less sure what to do about it, much less how to respond. But I do press a kiss to the top of his head before I suggest a shower.

"With me?" he lifts his face up to ask.

"Better for the environment."

We stick to washing up and the occasional wet kiss in the shower, both of us too spent and sore to try to work in another round of orgasms. But it's still the most intimate I've ever been with anyone. Washing his hair. Ensuring every inch of him is clean, letting him do the same to me like I'm not perfectly capable of washing myself. It's a new kind of nakedness—the soul-baring kind. And while part of me relishes every second of it solely on the basis of how good it feels to be taken care of, another part of me wants to get it over with because I shouldn't need this.

I do need this.

The personal space thing I mentioned to him? It's always applied to showers. I've never shared that space with anyone before. I'm not sure what to chalk up this change in me to. But him is an obvious answer.

Afterward, Olivier lies down with me to take a nap before I have to go down and "work the door" as he puts it. He gloms onto me like my niece Kelly does whenever I see her, wrapping herself around my leg or torso whenever she gets the chance.

If given the choice of having his hands on me or not—I pick hands—fuck personal space. I choose soft curls in my face and the sweet citrus scent of him. The satin-smooth expanse of his body covering mine.

"Of course I wanna suck your cock," I mumble just before nodding off.

"Then why don't you?"

"Because…timing…"

This might soundirresponsible in the extreme, but I've kept my phone off since riding up the service elevator after leaving Chelsea the other night. It's been plugged in and charged on Olivier's kitchen counter, but every time I walked past it and felt the itch—the idea of more bad news or tough conversations stayed my hand.

But once I'm back at work, I have to turn it on. While it powers up, I see Babs and Jeremy out on their way to dinner and let in 609 with her two Yorkies—the bane of the entire sixth floor's existence.

My second least favorite tenant also makes a rare appearance, so absorbed in her phone, she doesn't even acknowledge me as a human as I open the door for her and summon the elevator.

She's young, maybe my age, and an author of one breakout novel. People like her come and go from this building all the time, but they usually have basic manners. Unless she's some kind of fucking genius, which—who knows—maybe she is—she won't earn out her advance, or her next book will flop, and she'll end up leaving the Upper East Side because she doesn't belong up here anymore than I do.

I fantasize about her "moving out" day often.

Olivier's due to leave soon, and every ding of the elevator behind me has my heart rate jacked, but I chance a glance at my phone and wince at the sheer number of missed calls and texts.

The majority of them, interestingly, are from my roommate Christian. Silas left a voicemail and one text that says, "call me back," Jericho left one text message that I'll look at once Olivier leaves, and Peggy left five text messages demanding to know the name and number of the plumber, where the hell I am, who the hell I think I am, and two half-assed apologies and gentler requests to get back with her ASAP. I know better than to fall for those, though. Fool me once, as they say…

The elevator doors slide open.

I rise because I know it's him. I don't know how or why, but I'm right. It's an Olympic feat of strength not to reach up and trace each brutal hickey I left on his neck above the crisp white collar of his Oscar de la Renta shirt. His suit is bespoke, dove gray, and a perfect fit. His shoes are Prada. They look like black suede, but they're probably made of something much rarer than that. He's stunning. Angels would weep at the sight of him. So could I, I think.

Summoning my voice from somewhere, I say, "Impeccable. As always, Mr. Arnaud."

"You're too kind, Jack." And yet he preens a moment, giving me profile. An over-the shoulder, a smolder with hands in pockets, modeling the suit in that sleek Manhattan way I never mastered. Because I'm not sleek. And I'm not pretty.

"Do you have the ring?" I ask.

He pats his pant pocket. "Yes."

I lift a brow. "Any chance she'll say no?"

"I can hope."

"Don't hope," I say. "Manifest."

He cracks a smile, and our gazes snag. I force an exhale, finding it really hard not to grab him by his hand stitched lapels and back him into a wall. "And do me a favor," I say.

He nods upward with his chin.

"Let me know if you're not coming home tonight."

"You'll know as soon as I do."

"Thanks."

"Walk me out?" he asks.

I gesture toward the door, and Olivier leads the way. As I hold it open, and he walks past, his hand brushes my hip. My dick perks up like he just pulled a string attached to it. With his other hand, between two fingers, he holds out a card. Not like a business card or a letter, but like a credit card. I frown.

"The key to my place."

I pluck it from him and put it in my pocket. "Thanks."

"No matter where I wind up tonight," he says, "I still hope to see you when I get back."