Chapter 12
Philip
The kitchen feels different after the call.
Quieter.
Not in volume.
In weight.
I look at everything except Mark’s face.
At the coffee cup hanging forgotten in his hand.
At the tight set of his shoulders.
And decide, with the full maturity of a forty-two-year-old professional man, that I would rather set myself on fire than have a feelings conversation before breakfast settles.
No.
Absolutely not.
I push off the stool.
Mark turns slightly at the movement.
I walk straight over, take the mug from his hand, set it down on the counter behind him, and kiss him.
He inhales sharply.
Then his hands are on me.
One at my waist.
One flattening against my back.
Pulling me in.
Yes.
Much better.
I kiss him harder, slow enough to feel him respond, deep enough to drag him out of his own head.
Mark makes a low sound into my mouth that does deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.
When I pull back, it is only just enough to breathe.
“We are not doing departure maths before ten in the morning,” I murmur.
His forehead rests briefly against mine.
“That an official ruling?”
“Yes.”
“Based on what authority?”
“I’m an editor. I control pacing.”
That gets the ghost of a smile.
Good.
Progress.
I brush another kiss over his mouth.
“And,” I add, because I have apparently decided subtlety is for cowards, “for the record, while you were out running and then showering, I had a very… thorough cleaning session.”
His eyes darken.
“A thorough cleaning session,” he repeats.
I nod.
“Very thorough. Extremely committed to hygiene.”
His fingers tighten against my waist.
“Philip.”
“What? I’m sharing useful information.”
His stare drops to my mouth.
Then lower.
Then back up.
The look sends a pulse of heat straight through me.
Excellent.
The Wednesday cloud cracks a little more.
I smile, because if I don’t I may combust.
Mark closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, there is significantly less sea-gazing melancholy and significantly more intent.
“You are,” he says quietly, “a serious problem.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Then he kisses me again.
Hard.
Not careful this time.
The kind of kiss that knocks the breath out of me and replaces it with something hotter.
I make a sound against his mouth that I would deny in court.
His hand slides from my back to my arse, hauling me closer, and suddenly I am very aware of the edge of the counter pressing into my bum and the fact that this man can turn from thoughtful to devastating in under ten seconds.
When he pulls back, his mouth brushes the corner of mine.
“That,” he says, voice rougher now, “is a deeply unfair thing to tell me when I’m trying to behave like a functional adult.”
I blink at him.
“Were you trying?”
“Barely.”
I grin.
“There’s the spirit.”
Mark exhales a laugh against my cheek, but his hand stays exactly where it is.
Warm.
Possessive.
Dangerously easy to lean into.
His mouth drifts to my jaw.
Then just below my ear.
I tip my head back before I can pretend otherwise.
“This,” I say, not entirely steadily, “feels like a better use of the morning.”
“Hm.”
His lips brush my throat.
Another small shiver works its way down my spine.
“Philip,” he murmurs, and the way he says my name—low, almost reverent—sends a shiver down my spine.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
“Tell me what you want.”
I reach out, my fingers brushing the warm skin of his forearm, tracing the edge of a tattoo—a serpent coiled around a wrench, the details intricate, the ink slightly raised under my touch. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just waits.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say, the words coming out rougher than I intended. My voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, and I clear my throat, but I don’t look away. Can’t. Not when his eyes are burning into me like this.
Mark’s groans, just barely. His chest rises, falls.
Then his hand is on my waist, large and calloused, pulling me flush against him.
The heat of his body seeps through my shirt, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my hip.
I gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle there.
“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a growl.
I lick my lips. “Fuck me, Mark.”
His mouth crashes onto mine, and it’s nothing like the slow, teasing kisses we’ve shared before.
This is hunger. This is need. His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming me, and I moan into his mouth, my body arching into his.
His hands are everywhere—one tangled in my hair, the other gripping my ass.
The kiss is filthy, wet, our teeth clacking together as we fight for dominance.
I bite his lower lip, and he groans, the sound vibrating against my chest.
“Upstairs,” he growls, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. “Now.”
I don’t argue. Can’t. My brain’s too fuzzy with lust, my body too desperate for more.
He takes my hand, his fingers laced tightly with mine, and leads me out of the kitchen.
The wooden stairs creak under our weight as we climb, the sound loud in the quiet house.
The bedroom is bathed in the morning sun light streaming through the windows, the sea-green walls casting everything in a soft, aquatic hue.
Mark doesn’t let go of my hand. He pulls me to the center of the room, then turns me to face him, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my trousers. “These need to come off.”
I nod, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of my shirt.
He watches as I strip, his gaze dark and intense, tracking every inch of skin I reveal.
The air is cool against my heated flesh, raising goosebumps along my arms. By the time I’m naked, my cock is fully hard, leaking at the tip, and Mark’s still fully dressed.
The asymmetry of it—me bare, him clothed—sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing the underside of my cock, and I jerk, a broken sound escaping my throat.
“Mark—”
“Shh.” He presses a finger to my lips, then replaces it with his mouth, kissing me slow and deep.
His free hand trails down my chest, over my stomach, then wraps around my cock.
I groan into the kiss, my hips bucking into his touch.
He strokes me once, twice, his thumb swiping over the slick head, and I’m already close, my balls drawing up tight.
“Not like this,” I gasp, pulling back. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes flash, and then he’s stepping away, shedding his clothes with efficient movements.
His t-shirt hits the floor first, revealing the expanse of his tattooed chest, the ink a stark contrast against his pale skin.
His jeans follow, then his boxers, and my pulse stumbles at the sight of him—thick, heavy cock standing proud, the head dark and glistening, his balls drawn up tight.
He steps closer, his hands cupping my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Hey. We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering. “I want you. Just… go slow, okay?”
Some of the tension leaves his face. He nods, then kisses me again, gentle this time. Reassuring. His hands slide down to my shoulders, then lower, mapping the curve of my spine, my soft stomach. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arse, and I moan, pressing closer.
I let him guide me backward, my feet shuffling across the hardwood, the backs of my knees hitting the mattress edge with a soft thump.
I sit, then scoot back across the rumpled duvet, the fabric bunching beneath my palms. Mark follows, his body a shadow in the low lamplight, then drops to his knees on the floor.
The sight of him there, shoulders broad, head bowed between my spread legs, sends a pulse of heat straight to my groin.
His hands slide up my thighs, palms rough and warm, pushing them apart.
I let him, let my knees fall open, and the cool air of the room rushes against my exposed hole.
I tense automatically, muscles clenching, but Mark just hums, a low, satisfied sound, his breath ghosting warm against my inner thigh.
"Relax," he murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscle along my inner thigh, working slow circles into the tension. "I've got you."
I nod, swallowing hard, forcing myself to breathe through the vulnerability of it.
To trust. His mouth follows the path his hands have set, lips dragging across my skin, kissing, nipping, then soothing each small sting with the flat of his tongue.
The scratch of his stubble burns against my thigh, a counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, and my cock twitches, thickening where it rests against my stomach.
When his tongue flicks over my hole, a single, wet, deliberate stroke, I jerk, my spine arching off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing from my throat.
"Fuck, Mark..."
He chuckles, the vibration humming against my sensitive skin, making me squirm. "Patience, Philip."
I want to argue, want to grab his head and force him where I need him, but then his mouth is there again, tongue circling, pressing, teasing, and my thoughts scatter like ash.
He takes his time, infuriatingly, deliberately, refusing to let me rush ahead.
Every time I think he's finally going to give me what I want, what I'm aching for, he eases back, presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh, drags another helpless sound from me instead.
His tongue traces the rim, slow and thorough, then dips inside just enough to make my breath hitch before he pulls away.
My fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white.
The wet heat of his mouth returns, lapping at me, fucking me with shallow thrusts that have my hips rolling off the bed, seeking more.
He holds me down with one hand splayed across my hip, firm and unyielding, while his tongue works me open with maddening patience.
"Mark, please..." The words scrape out of me, rough and desperate.