Page 39 of Read My Lips

Breathless, he leaned back, looking me over like he was planning on a feast. God, yes please. With fumbling fingers, he slipped the knot of his tie one handed, faster than he’d done it twelve times already for the camera. This time he held my eye as he trailed the cool silky edge through the wiry tangle of my chest hair. He watched me judder under the tease of it, and his gorgeous mouth curled into the warmest smile I’d ever seen.

“Ben?” Dropping to the flat of one arm, all tease and electricity, he wet his lips against my ear. “There’s nothing wrong with just sex.”

ASM-fucking-R. I body-stuttered against him.

Up under his bum, my enthusiasm peaked.

He ground down, right against my lower abs and oh god, he was properly glamping in his peacock boxers. Obsessive gym visits for the win.

Instinctively, I tensed, aiming for a bit of corrugation for him to rut against, borderline hyperventilating, trying not to go off hair-trigger. And Simon stopped sharply.

“You alright?”

I crushed my frustration into an aborted groan.

“Yeah.” He shouldn’t give a shit. “Yes. Course I am. You?”

“Very much so.” Eyes on me, he traced my jaw, one finger trailing the rise of my top lip. The messy not quite-right bit in the middle where they stitched the skin together when I was a baby. Mam always said nobody could tell, but she was lying. I could tell. Simon could tell, or he wouldn’t be hovered right there being so fucking tender it burnt.

I bit him. Again.

The subtle rise of his fingerprint rasped acid against the flicker of my tongue tip. He jutted his chin, laughing like he liked it. I’d worship him, head to toe if he gave me a chance. The flattered little gleam in his eyes told me he knew it, too.

And what the ever-loving hell did I think I was doing?

This was circumstantial. Nothing real. Friction on his side, pent up frustration on mine, way too much cool silk between us.

Breathing stiffly, I rammed one foot down onto the antique rug, in case I fell off the sofa, every muscle in me bone-snapping tight. Simon leaned back.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

The rest of the world blurred out behind him.

“Hundred percent.” Miraculously, my voice came through clear and steady, but Simon blinked at me like he didn’t buy the act.

Well played, Cooper. He’d never try to ravage me ever again now. No more thinking.

I rolled us, scrabbling onto my knees, colliding with the couch cushions. Simon full-on undulated under me, shunting himself down the length of the seat, hands on my back, my arms, thighs. Everywhere. No more questions. Just my mouth on his. God yes, lips and tongue and hands and⁠—

Simon laughed, pushing back against my arms. “Easy.”

I spluttered to a halt, searching his face. It didn’t feel like stop. Didn’t feel like no. Just space and pause from the breathless too-much, right-now-yes of it.

He tugged me down, kissing me so slow I thought I’d die. All those fireworks from the rooftop where I thought he’d meant it sparked back to life. And he hummed and he shifted, body pulling tight against mine, hands scruffed into my hair like he needed anchoring. I gripped at him. Rubbed in against him, he held me up like the curved arches of a river bridge spanned under the train tracks. Exactly what I needed.

I did it again. Kissed him. Soft and dry and haltingly slow, my teeth rough-soft over the spill of his lower lip, close and warm and – oh.

This didn’t feel like faking it.

Blinking down at him – looking at him looking at me, all pupil-blown, eyelash close, his grin rolling mellow like I’d made his day – this didn’t feel like faking it at all.

And then the room went black.

All the lights strobed on for a jolting second, and flicked right back off. “What the⁠—?”

Over by the doorway, Richard Whittaker gave a pointed cough. The plug for the extension-lead to the lighting rig dangled from Sev’s hand.

“For fucksake!” I ripped away from Simon, scrabbling for something to shove into my lap. Oh déjà bloody vous. Except, there were no handy pillows lying about this time.