Chapter 11 Luca #2
I looked at his shirt, sleeves rolled and collar open at the throat. It was one of the three he’d brought with him to New Orleans. They stretched slightly across his muscular chest, and he wore them neatly tucked.
I set my glass down .
He watched me cross the kitchen toward him. I rested a hand on the front of his shirt. He tensed slightly before leaning in.
I kissed him.
He made a sound low in his throat before reaching out for me. One hand was at my neck, fingers slipping into my hair. The other was at my waist, pulling me toward him. I pressed against his body, feeling the full length of him against me, warm and solid.
He kissed back hard. It was immediate; his mouth opened against mine. I tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans and slid a hand underneath. Thiago’s skin was warm and firm. He exhaled sharply through his nose and kissed me harder.
The counter behind Thiago still held his notes. His pen rolled off the edge. Neither of us looked.
I unbuttoned his shirt. He walked me backward two steps until I hit the opposite counter.
“Luca.”
“Yes.”
“Here?” He sounded genuinely uncertain amid the dinner dishes with Celeste’s empty glass on the counter. “We’re —“
“Yes.”
He didn’t need more. He kissed me again, withholding nothing. A pressure valve released. Thiago’s hands were everywhere. He unbuttoned my shirt, and the urgency made me laugh once, breathlessly, against his shoulder.
“Shut up,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
He was right. I was.
He straightened and looked at me, shirt open, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and his eyes darker than I’d yet seen them. This was what he looked like when he stopped analyzing the world around him.
“Hi,” I said.
He kissed me again instead of answering.
I took his hand and led him upstairs to my room. The lamp on the bedside table threw enough light to see him.
He stopped and stood just inside the door for a moment.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Don’t.”
He smiled and closed the distance between us. Up close, in the low light, Thiago looked different. His careful control was gone. He pushed my shirt off my shoulders.
He placed his hands on my bare skin, tracing my collarbone and spreading wide across my chest. His eyes followed his hands, exploring my smooth body. When his thumbs brushed my nipples, I exhaled sharply.
“Good?” he asked.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
He smiled and kissed down my throat and over my chest. I reached out to grip his hair. My head tipped back. The ceiling fan turned its slow circuit above us, and the city’s ambient light lay across the floor in a pale stripe.
Thiago stepped back enough to look at me, seeing my entire body, and then he fell to his knees.
The sight of him, a composed and controlled man, on the floor of my bedroom looking up at me, short-circuited my thoughts. He unbuckled my belt, and something between a grunt and a moan escaped me. He worked my pants open and reached inside, his fingers closing around my thick, heavy cock.
He took his time. His grip was firm as he took me into his mouth. He watched my face while he worked. My hands tightened in his hair, holding on.
I said his name. He didn’t answer, just adjusted his grip, and I stopped forming words.
My thoughts scattered. It had been too long since I’d experienced such pleasure delivered by another man. Specific images surfaced randomly. The cold brew Thiago acquired by unknown means. His pen rolling off the counter edge.
“Luca.” His deep, quiet voice pulled me back.
I looked down at him. “Come here,” I said.
He rose in one motion, and I pulled him up and kissed him before he’d fully straightened, tasting myself on his mouth. I pushed him back toward the bed, and we tumbled onto it together.
I reached into Thiago’s jeans while he gripped me again. We stroked each other, and it didn’t take long.
When our orgasms broke over us, we were quiet, recognizing Dominic’s presence down the hall. I held on while Thiago’s body shuddered, and his warm cum spread across my knuckles.
Afterward, Thiago lay half over me, one hand open and heavy across my stomach, his breathing gradually slowing. He lifted his head and looked at me.
“That,” he said quietly, “was unexpected.”
I brushed my thumb once across the furrowed line between his brows. “No, not entirely.”
“Agreed.”
He rested his head on my shoulder and closed his eyes. The threat remained. The Orpheum remained. None of this changed that. But in the dark, with Thiago’s weight real against me, I was calm.
I hadn’t expected that.
When I came downstairs the next morning, Thiago was already in the kitchen, pouring coffee.
“You’re wearing the shirt you wore yesterday,” I said.
“I packed for four days.”
I accepted the mug he held out before I reached the counter. “How long are you staying?”
“Until the concert.”
“That’s seven more days. And after?”
He sipped and looked at me over the rim of his mug.
“I’ll address that when I get there.”
“That is a very Thiago answer.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Not yet.”