Chapter 2 #2
“This is our house,” I reminded him, noting the pleasure in his eyes at my emphasis on the word. “If our house guests return unexpectedly and then walk past this scattering of clothes on the floor without alarm bells going off, then they deserve what they get. Does it bother you?”
Mads thought about that. “No. Surprisingly, it doesn’t.” Naked at last, he stepped into my arms and slid his hands around my waist, our semi-hard cocks brushing together in obvious approval. “Happy now that I’m naked?”
“Not yet.” I cradled his face, relishing the rub of his coarse scruff against my palm. “I want to fuck you, Mads.”
He stilled, eyes wide in question. “Really?” He licked his lips, unable to hide the anticipation. “Are you sure?”
“No,” I deadpanned, taking his chin between my thumb and finger and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Yes. I’m sure.”
He leaned back just enough to walk his fingers down my belly to palm my solid cock. He gave it a squeeze, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Then I’d say it’s time to put your money where your mouth is, Mister Fisher. You’ve got a lot of ground to catch up and I’m a demanding boy.”
And fuck if I wasn’t down for the challenge.
There was nothing sexier than Madigan Church unleashed in bed.
So, so different from the buttoned-up book nerd I’d met all those months ago.
I’d never been more surprised by anyone, and this new direction we were taking would likely be no different.
I’d been enjoying Mads’ prowess as a top for months, and I couldn’t imagine him being any less impressive as a bottom.
Bossy as shit and surprisingly uninhibited, Mads fulfilled all my librarian/bookbinder fantasies and then some.
The need for order and tidiness and everything in its place stopped at the bedroom door.
In bed, my cautious, quiet book conservator was an unrepentant, filthy tease.
Talk about not judging a book by its cover, pun fully intended.
Mads was a generous, expressive lover. How any of his exes could paint him as boring and old before his time, I had zero idea. Then again, Madigan saved his passion for the things that meant most to him, and I was lucky enough to be counted amongst them.
But this was new ground for us.
The fact I hadn’t yet topped was an anomaly Madigan had kindly not questioned me about.
Davis had preferred to bottom by a big margin, so it had mostly gone that way between us.
Maybe that was why it had taken me so long to top Mads.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like I was worried I’d think about Davis while I was with Mads; that particular cat was out of the bag because I did think about Davis.
Often, as it happened. In bed. During sex.
At the oddest moments. But never with guilt or anxiety or regret or comparison.
More like a fond memory that appeared and then disappeared just as quickly.
Mads would sometimes pause when it happened. He’d send me a quirky smile like he knew and that it was okay. Maybe he did. And maybe it was. He’d confessed that sometimes he thought about Davis too. Nothing weird. Just warm appreciation.
It had taken me a long time to become comfortable with the idea that I could inhabit two spaces at the same time, and it wasn’t a judgement on either one. These two men were layered in my life. Inextricably connected. Past and present. You didn’t get one without the other.
It had taken me until that moment to really understand.
“Nick?” Mads studied me, a question in his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to do this, right? I’m more than happy—”
“Yes, I do.” I wrapped my hands around his face and kissed him hard. “There’s nothing I want more right now than to be buried inside you.”
A huge smile formed against my lips. “I detect a seismic shift in the Fisher-Church universe.”
I chuckled and kissed him again. “Nine point five on the Richter scale, give or take. Initial assessments suggest a significant release of pressure but with no apparent damage.”
Mads leaned back just enough to lock gazes and nodded sagely. “I see. Sounds . . . intriguing. Should I buckle up for the ride or clutch my pearls and think of England?” He waggled his brows and did a thing with his hips that jerked his cock and had my own paying attention.
“You were saying?” He reached for me, his warm hand closing around my cock. He began to stroke, adding that signature Mads twist on the upstroke that rendered me almost speechless, every time.
I treated Mads to one of my best eye rolls. “You know damn well I can’t think when you do that.”
His grin grew wider, if that was even possible. “You haven’t answered my question yet. The oh shit bar or my pearls.”
I shot him a look. “You do remember the part where it’s me topping you this time, right?”
He shrugged and kept stroking. “Topping, schmopping. That’s just a question of whose what goes into whose where. Nothing to do with who is actually calling the shots.”
I snorted. “Clearly. But not this time, Mister Control Freak.” I grabbed his hand before I came to a quick and embarrassing end. “This time we’re doing it my way.” I headed for the bedroom, taking Mads with me.
“But I made the bed,” he protested weakly.
I sent a look over my shoulder that needed no interpretation. And he laughed.
“Fine. Have it your way. But you do realise that as delightful as this turn of events is, I haven’t exactly prepared for it, and those were clean sheets yesterday.”
I swallowed a smile. The man was too cute for words. “You talk too much” was my only response other than making a pit stop at the laundry to grab a few old car detailing towels and a fresh tube of lube from our supplies.
Mads took one look at the towels and broke into a smile. “What? You gonna buff my panels? Maybe polish my headlights? Clean out my exhaust?”
“Jesus Christ.” I gave him a shove down the hall toward his studio and his laughter faltered.
“Where are you—? Oh no! No, no, no.” Mads spun to face me, clearly scandalised. “You can’t possibly be planning to fuck me in there.”
I leaned in and put my lips to his ear. “You have an old, comfortable, and very large couch in there.”
His eyes narrowed. “I believe you’re referring to our official office break couch.” He raised an eyebrow in judgement.
I reached out a finger and pushed it back down. “Your glasses are in there too, correct? The black-rimmed ones that almost make me come on the spot?”
That made him smile and he brought our lips within kissing distance. “This is very true.”
I nipped him on the nose. “Plus, you can see that couch from your workbench. You can think about what we did on it. You can remember. Feel. Be . . . inspired.”
A strangled sound broke from Mads’ lips. “Damn you.”
I grinned, sensing victory in the bag. “So, yes, baby, I’m gonna fuck you in your studio, on that couch, while you’re wearing those sexy black glasses, and nothing else. And you’re going to be reminded of it every single day when you sit at your desk.”
Mads’ cheeks burned rosy red. “I suppose . . . when you say it like that . . . I can see the appeal.” He punched the code into the alarm pad like his fingers were on fire and yanked me into the dark interior. See above note re the man being bossy as shit.
Oh yeah, this had fun written all over it.
Stepping into Mads’ studio was always a treat.
I took a second to breathe in the familiar aroma of paper, leather, glue, and history.
I’d watched Mads work many times. It was like watching a lover touch the object of their desire.
There was a relationship between a conservator and the book they worked on.
A contract of sorts. A promise. Mads once said that the best book conservators were like sculptors.
They saw the true form within the material and worked to expose it while safeguarding the story of its journey.
This time it would be our form together and our story.
Mads dimmed the lights and made a beeline for the extra-large couch he’d salvaged from a second-hand store not long before we’d met. You could fit two people side by side with room to spare, and I intended to use every last centimetre of it.
I was about to spread the towels when Mads hip-checked me to the side. “I’ll do it.”
I stood back and watched him meticulously cover the entire couch from top to bottom before lowering himself provocatively onto one elbow like some wanton hussy in a B-grade movie. When he crooked his finger at me, it was all I could do not to laugh.
“Hold that thought.” I ran for Mads’ workbench, returning with his black-rimmed glasses. I slid them into place, stood back, and drank my fill. “Jesus Christ.” I ran a hand over my mouth and drew a shuddering breath. “You look . . . you look—damn.”
Mads swept his hand from head to toe. “Like what you see, huh?”
I crawled onto the couch and he rolled onto his back beneath me.
“You have no idea how much I love what I see.” I took his face in my hands and kissed him, long and slow, our tongues tangling, our bodies pressed together, his heart pounding against mine.
I could only hope I’d last long enough to satisfy him.
Mads leaned back and eyed me quizzically. “Something wrong?”
I huffed. “Other than feeling like I’m sixteen and jerking off my first guy behind the school gym, all fingers and thumbs and with no idea what the fuck I’m doing, no, there’s nothing wrong.”
He laughed. “I’m making you nervous. Wow. That’s a first.”
It was worth an eye roll, so I gave him one. “Nervous, a little. But mostly hot, bothered, and desperate to make this good for you.”