35. The Sex Fairy
THE SEX FAIRY
Asher
Five minutes later, I’m still trying to catch my breath. And I’m not sure exertion is to blame. Mark remains pancaked against my back, his palm in the center of my chest, over my thumping heart.
It’s a blessing he can’t see my face, because I need a minute to myself.
I’ve had good sex before. Many times. But startling things keep happening in this bed.
Mark’s fearlessness is a huge turn-on. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows what he wants and then takes it. Our chemistry is white-hot.
But I like the guy. I know I’m not supposed to. He told me he’s not looking for a relationship. He told me he can’t have one.
And God knows I’m trash at them.
Maybe that’s why I can’t shake this wistful feeling?like we’re supposed to see where this goes. Perhaps we’re all programmed to crave the things we can’t have.
Behind me, Mark lets out a satisfied groan. And I realize I’ve gone silent on him. So I try to shake off my deep thoughts with a bit of my typical snark. “Well, Banks, I’m giving you an A plus.”
“But . . .?” he asks. “I hear a but .”
I roll toward him and prop my head in my hand. “But . . .” I run a finger along his hip. “What did you think, Mark?”
He grabs my hand and links his fingers through mine. “I can’t think at all,” he whispers. “I’ve never had as much fun in bed as I’ve had with you.”
“Yeah?” My smile is dangerously large?dangerous because I’m not quite ready to let him know how much I’ll miss this when it’s gone.
“Hell yeah.” He leans in and kisses my neck. “There’s only one thing this weekend is missing.”
“Mmm?” I’m distracted by the brush of his lips on my neck. As far as I’m concerned, not a thing is missing.
“Lord Ollie and Sir Trevor. I think we should watch it together. One of these days, Hannah is going to remember to ask me what I thought of the first episode. And I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”
“Hell yes.” I love this idea. “But if there are any hot sex scenes, I might have to pause the show and get you off again.”
“I might need that anyway,” he says with a devilish smile. “Now let’s get comfortable and do this right.”
Fast forward a half hour, and we’re freshly showered and reclining in Mark’s bed while the sheets from my bed spin around in the washer.
We’re snuggled close together so we can both see his laptop screen. And we’re drinking seltzer water and picking at a bunch of grapes while we watch two Hollywood actors in period costume give each other smoldering looks.
It’s so . . . nice. And healthy. Usually I come to Miami for the nightlife. But there’s no place else I’d rather be right now. I haven’t had a TV buddy in a long time.
“She’s going to trick Lord Oliver into signing the marriage banns,” Mark says, his wrist grazing my abs as he reaches for a grape. “I called it.”
“No way,” I say, taking the other side as a reflex. “He’s too smart for that.”
It may not actually be true. But Lord Oliver is a blond guy with floofy hair. I have to stand up for my people.
Sure enough, the duchess slips a marriage contract into the stack of papers Lord Oliver’s secretary placed onto his desk for his signature. “Nooooo,” I bellow. “This is a disaster. I want a refund.”
And I use the moment to wrap an arm around Mark, because I’m smooth like that.
“Sir Trevor will think of something,” he says, relaxing against me.
“He’ll make a spreadsheet,” I say, stroking Mark’s shoulder.
“In 1821?” Mark chuckles.
I lean in and nibble on his ear. Just a little.
“Are we still watching this show?” Mark asks.
“Of course we are.” I lick his earlobe. “I’m just pre-gaming. There’d better be a sex scene soon. My patience is not infinite.”
Mark leans back a little farther into my embrace, but I try to behave. Meanwhile, Sir Trevor discovers that Lord Oliver’s bride is in love with someone else. He writes her a poem so heartbreaking that she breaks down, weeping.
And, even more cleverly, he helps her elope to Scotland with her man.
Then—praise Jesus—Lord Oliver and Sir Trevor meet up in the dead of night for some hot lovin’ at a hunting cabin on Ollie’s ancestral grounds. “Here we go!” I crow as Sir Trevor bolts the door. “You go get it, man. You know you want him.”
“Will Ollie bottom?” Mark asks, eating the last grape.
“Nah, Trevor is a power bottom, and probably a size queen.”
Mark snorts out a laugh. “Rip his shirt off, Ollie! Hurry!”
And he does. Our two heroes stumble into the bedroom where the sex fairy has kindly popped by to light about seven hundred candles.
Trevor pushes Ollie onto the giant bed. “We don’t have much time.”
“We have all night,” Ollie argues, gripping Trevor’s chin. “Now kiss me with that clever mouth of yours.”
“It’s more clever even than that, Lord. Would you like a demonstration?”
“Say yes, Ollie!” Mark yells.
Ollie crushes his mouth to Trevor’s instead. And then more clothes come off.
Mark’s hand lands on my knee and begins to stroke.
Yesss. I put a hand on his abs and spread out my fingers temptingly. “You like this, huh?”
“And you don’t?”
“Oh, I do.” I kiss his neck. “But I’m really here for the fashion and the British accents.”
“Sure you are.” He runs a hand up my thigh to tease my bulge. “This semi is for the knee pants, I bet.”
“And the waistcoats,” I add.
I wait for his snark. After all, fuck you is our love language.
But that’s not what happens. Instead, he turns around and takes my mouth in a bossy kiss. And with his knee, he closes the laptop.
“I was watching that,” I say against his lips.
“But now you’re not anymore.”
He pushes me back against the pillows, and my temperature jumps a good ten degrees. God help me, but I cannot resist Mark Banks in a bossy mood.
We may never get to the end of the show.
I don’t even care.
We do finish the show. Later.
Much later. And then, lying naked in the dark, we debate what might happen in the next episode.
“Lord Ollie will be sent back to the country,” Mark says, emphatic. “And Sir Trevor won’t chase him.”
I scoff. “That bad boy poet is going to be commandeering the next carriage to go after his man.”
“Nope.” Mark insists he’ll be right.
I do the same.
Funny, I can almost see us conducting this same kind of post-mortem when the next episode airs. But I file that under things that will never happen , like me driving a minivan, or keeping a spreadsheet.
Just because you can picture something doesn’t mean it can or will come true.
When I turn off the light, I kiss the back of his neck, savoring the scent of this well-fucked man. “Hey, Mark?”
“Yeah?”
I kiss him one more time. “Fuck you.”
I can feel his smile in the dark when he says, “Fuck you too.”