32. That Thing
32
THAT THING
Hunter
“Your friends are great,” Nate declares after we say goodbye a little later, then turn down a side street.
“Yeah, they are,” I mutter.
“It’s cute seeing you with them,” he continues as we head up the block, passing homes that look like Virginia Woolf or T.S. Eliot lived here once upon a time.
“That’s me. So cute .” I don’t bother to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
Nate pulls a face. “Whoa. What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing. I’m just The English Cutie,” I say drily.
“Hunter, what the hell?” Nate asks, lips twisting. “Why are you acting like this?”
That’s an excellent question. I wish I knew the answer. “No reason,” I say.
I’m such a dick right now. I need to cut it out.
Nate stops, backs up against a brick building. I stop too. He blows out a breath. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
Tonight? No.
This weekend? No.
Next week? No too.
That’s part of the problem.
“No…I just,” I start to make my point, but I’m picturing arguments I’ve never won. Protests I’ve tried to make. All futile.
“Hunter,” Nate says with genuine concern. “You’re freaking me out. Tell me what I did.”
Ugh. What is wrong with me? I don’t want to pick a fight. I spent enough time fighting with my father, until I learned it was pointless. Chin up. Ignore the lies . “Nothing, I swear,” I say, trying to sound believable. Trying to reassure him.
But Nate tries harder, reaches gently for me, setting a hand on my chest. “Tell me,” he implores, and fear flickers in his blue eyes. Fear of heartache. But even if it hurts, he’s asking what’s wrong.
My stupid heart softens. He’s not fighting me. He’s trying to fix this.
I swallow roughly, trying to sort out my emotions. “It’s just…well, your mates were with us in Vegas on Friday, and I had such a great time with everyone, and they knew the score. And you wanted to meet my friends, and we were having such a great time, and I thought maybe we’d tell them too.”
“Shit. I didn’t think of that,” he says with regret.
“It sounds stupid now that I say it. Really stupid. Who cares,” I say with a shrug, feeling so foolish.
“I care,” he says, curling that big hand over my shoulder. “I was just reacting. I didn’t want to tell the truth in case you didn’t want me to. But I should have told them what was going on.”
That’s the issue—what is going on with us? I’m dying to know. But I don’t want to ask. I’m too terrified his answer will diverge from mine. Instead, I let him into my world a little more. I might not have the guts to tell him I think he’s incredible, but I can at least tell him who I am. “My father had affairs constantly. He cheated on all his wives. He enlisted Harlow and me in his lying. He’d ask us to answer a call from his wife at the time, tell her he was out, take a message. Anything. And I’ve hated it ever since. And when I didn’t want to, he’d say, Someday when you’re older you’ll understand how the world works. And he didn’t like it when I didn’t go along with things. So then he switched to a new tactic and told me I wasn’t trying hard enough in uni or later in my job.” I shove a hand through my hair, despising the onslaught of memories of manipulation. “And I just don’t want to be like him,” I finish before I embarrass myself more by spitting up all my Daddy issues.
“I’m sorry, Hunter,” Nate says gently, the busy streets of London the backdrop to our fight. “I should have told them the truth. They’re your friends.”
I can’t stop. “What’s the truth?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound. But wanting the answer more.
He curls his hand around the back of my head. “I like you so much. So fucking much,” he says, and then he brushes his lips against mine. “Don’t be mad at me. Please.”
My defenses melt. “I’m not anymore. I can’t be mad at you,” I say. It’s not possible when he’s like this—a gentle giant. “I’m sorry I was pissy. I acted like a twat.”
He smiles tenderly, shaking his head. “We’re good. And you can tell your friends. I trust you. You know that, right?” He’s never let himself be so vulnerable with me. I’m floored by the magnitude of that admission. Trust is ruthlessly hard for him.
“I do know that,” I say. Then my lips curve in a grin. “Can we go have make-up sex please? I think it’s going to be really fucking stellar.”
He laughs. “All our sex is stellar.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, then I glance up the street. “I live two streets away.”
“Walk fast.”
But Nate’s not speedy when I let him into my place. He walks slowly as if memorizing every detail of the small studio. There’s a futon in the corner, a kettle on the stove, and some board and card games on the coffee table along with a few photo books.
He pauses at the window, cracked slightly to let in cool air, and glances at the cacti that line the windowsill.
“You have plants,” he says.
“Well, it’s hard to kill a cactus when I travel,” I say.
He stares at them but doesn’t touch. When he turns around, he says, “I like your place. It’s very you.”
“How so?”
“It’s friendly.” He returns to me. “It’s inviting, as if it’s got a little dimple, right there,” he says, touching the corner of my mouth. Then he puts his lips on my ear. “Want to hear my plans?”
Hell yes. “Ever since you mentioned them,” I say.
Nate runs a finger down my arm. “There’s something I haven’t done in a long time. Like, three years.”
Maybe he’s going to ask me to top him.
Would I? I think I would. I’d just want some tips. I’d want to hear how he likes it.
But when he whispers his plans in my ear, I strip naked faster than he tears down a football field.
The sounds of the city float in with the fall breeze. But I’m warm with anticipation as I emerge from the shower and dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist.
Nate waits for me on my futon, shoes off, clothes on, reading on his phone. When he sees me, he stretches his arm to the coffee table to set down his mobile.
He lets out a low whistle then a sexy rumble. “You look good enough to eat.”
“That’s the goal,” I say, buzzing with excitement.
“Sure is.” He beckons me with one finger. I close the distance between us and stand in front of him, nerves and desire firing in me all at once. This is uncharted terrain. This is a new level of intimacy.
He curls his hands around my hips, stares up at me with passion in his eyes. “You want this?”
“I do,” I say.
“Then do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Tell me what you like as I go, okay?”
How is this my life? This experienced, gorgeous man asking me to teach him how to rim me ?
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, strung out on anticipation. I’ve only watched tons of videos like this. Only gotten off to it countless times. Only pictured Nate every time lately.
He rises, moving behind me, his lips traveling over my bare shoulder.
My heart jumps. His hand darts over to my abs, and he traces my stomach with his rough fingertips. I try to catch my breath but reining in my racing pulse is futile when Nate cups my jaw and turns my face toward him.
My American lover captures my lips and kisses me, slow and tender. Then, he slides the tip of his tongue inside, opening my mouth like a tease.
My head goes hazy, and I feel dizzy. Especially when he breaks the kiss, then tugs at my towel, letting it fall onto the floor. His eyes take a filthy tour of my body, and he shakes his head in admiration.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says, then he sheds his clothes in seconds.
He’s right back on me, coming at me from behind, his hard cock pressing against my ass. “I researched how to give a great rim job yesterday,” he confesses.
That’s a new level of hot. Like, surface-of-the-sun level. “What did you learn?” I ask, then I shake my head. “Wait. Just show me.”
“Lie on your stomach,” he tells me, confident, assured.
I comply, settling onto my bed. I crane my neck, watching him as he settles behind me on the futon, runs his hands reverently over my legs.
He kisses the back of my thighs, then my cheeks, then the base of my spine, making me sigh and moan. Then he travels lower, groaning as he presses a hot kiss to the top of my ass. I’m breathing out hard as he licks a path down, flicking the tip of his tongue against me.
I practically jump out of my skin. “Fuck me,” I grunt, already wildly turned on.
“Good?” he asks.
“Really good,” I say as he squeezes my cheeks, licking a delicious, tantalizing circle. A dark, forbidden pleasure whips through my body.
I want to close my eyes and sink into the overwhelming sensations, but I also want to stare at this man as he worships my ass with his tongue.
His eyes are closed and his expression enrapt. I feel out of this world as he presses a hot, hungry kiss to me, then lets out a loud groan. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, sounding lost in a haze.
I slide deeper into the wicked sensations curling through my body and the intensity of the pleasure scrambling my brain.
But he wanted me to tell him what I liked. The answer? Everything. “Don’t change a thing. I fucking love this.”
With a growl, he rubs his beard against me. I like that more.
I surrender to every single delicious second of his tongue lavishing attention on me. My dick twitches. Drops of liquid arousal form at the tip.
I slide my hand down my body to squeeze my dick. “Feel me,” I tell him.
He snakes a hand between my thighs, angling me up so he can slide his fist down my cock, rubbing his thumb over the crown.
Then, with a filthy grunt, he says, “I think I’ll use this.”
He pulls back, rubs his thumb over my rim, coating me with my own desire, then he buries his face in me.
My brain short-circuits.
He was worried I might not like this? I’m addicted.
And I ache.
“Nate,” I beg. “Make me come.”
Grabbing my hips, he flips me to my back. “Gimme a little help for my hand,” he says.
I toss him the lube from my nightstand.
He catches it, then stares at my body like he’s ten seconds from blowing his load. “You’re a fucking dream,” he says, then he’s pushing on the back of my thighs, telling me to hold my legs open.
This is just…
So much.
So good.
More than I ever imagined sex could be.
I’m so fucking vulnerable and turned on at the same time as he returns to his mission, kissing me there, licking, and driving me wild as he strokes my cock until I’m too far gone to hold back.
He was right when he told me I’d call out his name. I roar Nate as I come hard in his hand.
When I open my eyes, his hand is already flying down his shaft, my orgasm lubricating the path until he’s grunting, growling, then saying my name, too, as he spills all over me.
When we’ve cleaned up and are back to lounging in each other’s arms on my futon, Nate says, “Text your friends. I don’t want you to have to lie to them.”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Do it anyway,” he urges.
But I shake my head. After the way Nate apologized on the street—heartfelt in a way I didn’t know people could apologize—he doesn’t need to prove anything. I’ll clear things up with Trevor and Liam when Nate’s gone.
He runs his hand down my stomach. “Hunter?” he says, my name a question.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
I flinch, not from fear but from surprise. From excitement. I look at him to gauge his expression, and I see sincerity in his eyes. “Well, I mean. Hell yes. I think I’m vers. But I thought you were strictly into topping?”
Nate smiles like he has a secret as he shakes his head. “I’m vers, but I mostly top. Mostly because guys want me to, and because I’m, well, a little bossy.”
“Ya think?”
He smiles a sleepy kind of smile. “Fine. A lot bossy.”
“There are bossy bottoms,” I point out.
He laughs. “Fair point. And bossy vers—actually, I’m not going to attempt to make a plural of that word. So, do you?”
“That’s like asking if I want cake or ice cream. I want both.”
“Yeah?” He sounds wickedly delighted.
“I don’t know if it’ll be any good. Or if I’ll last for more than two pumps. But fuck yes. I’ll try anything.”
“I noticed you’re kind of daring.”
I pull back and arch a brow in playful challenge. “Are you daring me to fuck you tomorrow night?”
He wiggles a brow. “Maybe I am,” he says.
“Challenge accepted,” I reply.
I’m delirious with excitement, and I fire off questions about his preferences, his favorite position, whether he likes it deep or rough. I need to know everything, like I’m prepping for a test.
When I’ve done all the research, Nate runs his fingers through my hair. “Honestly, I’m not worried. I know it’s going to be good. Because it’s you,” he says.
My heart thumps harder.
And because he’s him, I return to my news from earlier today. “I wanted to tell you something. Something good that happened to me,” I say.
He props himself up on his elbow, eager. “What’s the news?”
“Ilene was telling me how much she likes my work. And that Webflix is expanding its sports coverage in Europe.”
“Yeah? Does that mean she wants you to spearhead it?” he asks, sounding nearly as thrilled as I am.
“No. I’m too new for that. But she wants me to be involved in more projects.”
“Of course she wants you. You’re damn good at what you do.”
“Thanks,” I say, with a hopeful sigh. “She asked me to come to the reception tomorrow night. I told her I was already going to be there with you, but it was nice that she asked me without considering I’d be there with my star receiver husband.”
“More like I’m the stud producer’s date,” Nate says, playfully.
He’s too good to me. “Hardly. But thanks. I want to make my mark, you know?”
“I do.”
“The whole time I worked on Sweet Nothings, I felt like I hadn’t earned it and really, I hadn’t. This feels like mine. It feels important,” I say.
“It is, and I’m proud of you,” he says, then he’s quiet for a stretch, his brow creasing. “So, you’re in Europe then. For the long haul.”
Nate says it softly, wistfully maybe. A lot poignant. I don’t want to read anything into it, but I swear I can hear him missing me in that observation—the acknowledgement that oceans and continents separate us.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I’ll be here.”
He gives a what can you do shrug, then says, “And I’ll be there.”
My heart’s both fuller and a little more hollow. What’s there to say except, “That’s how it goes I suppose.”
“Yeah, it is.” He yawns, then pats the futon. “Want to crash here tonight?”
“Mister First Class wants to sleep on a queen-size futon?”
“I’m a size queen,” he says, shooting a salacious glance at my spent dick.
Laughing, I flop next to him. He wraps his arms around me. “Besides, this whole place smells like you. And I like it too much to leave.”
I close my eyes as if that can mask the sound of my heart thumping, saying I’m falling for him.
But I’d do well to remember the ground rules. One week. No commitments.
No matter how much longing I can hear in his voice, come Sunday night, we’ll be thousands of miles away from each other.