“Hardly. But I know you love books. When did you finish?”
I cough and glance away. “I, er, didn’t.”
Blake looks surprised. “You didn’t? You love everything to do with books from what I can tell.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to finish. Just…well, life happened instead. I needed to work, to help my mum after my dad died. So, I stopped going.” I hold his gaze, feeling a familiar heat in my face whenever the subject of uni comes up. Which inevitably makes me think of my dad. And thinking of my dad usually makes me sad. I carefully steer my thoughts away from him. There’s a time and a place to feel his loss, but today isn’t such a day.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make things awkward. Ask me anything.” He squeezes my hand.
“So why didn’t you use your marketing degree?”
“Acting,” Blake says simply. “Instead of getting a real job, I worked odd jobs after graduation, because that works best around auditions and parts and moving around the country all of the time for roles. I’d already landed a few small parts by the time I finished college. My dad thinks I’ve made a mess of my future. Joke’s on him—I can wait tables anywhere now.”
“Sounds like a useful degree, at least,” I say wryly. “Strangely, the world isn’t clamoring for lit grads. At least your degree will always be there if you ever want to work in marketing. If I had actually taken any business training, I’d probably be a lot better off than I am now.”
“The world is making poor choices, and there’s plenty enough people with business degrees,” says Blake firmly, glancing at me. “We need more readers and artists and creatives. They’re the real visionaries. The rest is just capitalism. And if you really want, you can still take business classes.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a visionary.”
“I would,” he says cheerfully. “From what I can tell, you have lots of talents.”
“Rumors.”
We grin at each other. Feeling buoyed, it’s easy to feel optimistic about the future with Blake’s encouragement. With Blake. Like we’ll have unlimited time to figure everything out.
Like America isn’t next week. But America’s out of mind now. Instead we dine and tease and joke the evening away.
When we’re back at the stone cottage, seated together in front of the fire, we take turns playing on the old guitar. Of course Blake’s brilliant. How could he not be? The way he looks at me as he sings undoes me and my worries.
And after the liquid silk of his voice, his unwavering gaze, Blake sets the guitar down. A sultry moment hangs between us. In the twilight, his eyes are deep blue, his mouth slightly parted. The way he savors me is my undoing. It’s amazing how quickly he’s become so important to me.
I reach over to brush his lips teasingly with my fingers. He nips, holding my finger between his teeth a moment till release.
“Naughty,” I drawl, sliding my hand along his jaw, safely out of teeth range, savoring the shudder that ripples through him. Shifting, I slide onto his lap to straddle him and wrap my arms around his neck. He’s already stiff. I can feel that. Like I’m already hard too.
Blake’s fingers grip my arse.
When I brush my lips against his, he shudders in my arms.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he murmurs between our teasing kisses, slightly breathless, “seeing more of your talents.”
“Is that right?” My mouth travels to his jaw and throat as I work to unbutton his shirt. He returns the favor with clumsy fingers. Under my hands and kisses, his chest rises and falls with his quickening breath. I lick a path along his collarbone and he moans.
Like I needed more encouragement, unwrapping this gift of a man. Of course, I pause for a moment to admire his well-built physique. He gasps when I tweak his nipple, slide my hand down to tease him through his jeans.
With a growl and in one fluid motion, Blake scoops me up in his arms. Wrapping my legs around him, it’s my turn for uneven breathing as he places me on my back on the sofa. Urgently, he yanks open my shirt. A button skitters across the hardwood floor while I make short work of unfastening his belt and fly.
“God.” Blake’s gasping hard.
“It’s Aubrey. Aubs if you’re cheeky.”
I kiss him hard as he slides his hands against my ribs, and then I’m helping him with my belt and jeans. Once I’m free, he hauls off my boxers and jeans with some effort, frowning.
“Fucking skinny jeans.”
I grin at him, how focused and urgent he is—and so incredibly hot.
The rain drums against the window as he pauses just long enough to go over to his suitcase for a condom and lube. It’s a great opportunity to admire him, mussed dark hair, flushed face, rigid cock reaching to the sky.
