I liked the confirmation that he wasn’t thinking of this as a one-time hookup, but I could see he was still rock-hard. “My hand, then. C’mere.” I beckoned. “Up here. I want a kiss.”
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow, but scooted up the bed and found my mouth with his. Tasting myself on his tongue made me wish I was ten years younger and a bit less battered. I reached for his erection, and he arched into my grip.
That long slim cock was made for me, a perfect fit in my palm. And he was uncut so we didn’t need lube to let me jack him, hard and smooth. I took up a rhythm, and he gasped with each motion of my hand. Precum welled under my palm as I swiped over the head. Then I added one long, tight stroke, tip to base and back up, and Brooklyn cried out and arched, shoving his dick through my fist. Thick spunk jetted between my fingers, hitting my chest and dripping onto Brooklyn’s stomach and thighs.
He groaned, his eyes half-shut, his face flushed. God, he looks good coming. I used the jizz to lube my strokes and kept going till he grabbed my wrist.
“Enough. Wow. Fuck, that was embarrassing. I came in, like, fifteen seconds.”
“After fifteen minutes of blowing me,” I pointed out.
“True. You were unfairly hot.” He delivered a hard, off-center kiss to my mouth. “Hottest I’ve ever seen.”
I laughed, feeling floaty and happy. In the glow of the moment, I almost believed he really meant that. Me, nearing-forty Arthur Bjornsson, who’d never been anyone’s first choice, was his tonight. No one’s preference, until this kind, cute, sexy, determined man invited me to his bed.
We shuffled closer together, sticky and messy but unwilling to stop kissing long enough to do something about it. I clasped his shoulder and he draped an arm across my hips.
Slowly, the need to get our mouths on each other ebbed into a quiet exchange, lips brushing lips, breath mingling. I sighed and closed my eyes.
“Here,” Brooklyn murmured. “Let me grab some tissues and get us wiped up.”
“I should go to my room.” But I didn’t move as his gentle touch patted and wiped me, cleaning the sticky aftermath from my skin, then pulling up my sleep pants.
“You’d just wake the dogs,” he said.
“Point.”
“Stay here. Morning will come soon enough. And I feel like I can sleep for a change.”
From the dark circles under his eyes as we’d sat in the kitchen, I suspected he needed that. If I could help him sleep, that would be something I could give, for all the things he’d done for me. A reason to stay in Brooklyn’s bed.
Face it, you don’t want to leave.
I decided it was too late, or too early, to deal with the angel on my shoulder. Or devil, whichever. Once Brooklyn had tossed the tissues, turned off the lamp, and lain down beside me, I told him, “Roll over. I can’t, and I want to hold you.”
He sighed, but the soft breath sounded more content than exasperated. He turned over and eased his bare ass against my flannel-covered dick. I was far too wrung out to get hard again, but I liked having him there. I hugged him lightly, my arm across his waist, and breathed in the scent of the back of his neck.
Sleeping with a stranger had never been something I was good at. Mostly I hadn’t tried to spend the night after getting off with guys, but if I did, I’d lie awake, rigidly holding still so I wouldn’t wake the other guy, worried I’d snore, or fart, or something. If I dropped off, my sleep was light and fitful.
And at first, in Brooklyn’s bed, I tried to control my movements, my breaths, hoping to lull him to sleep. But as I heard his breathing deepen and even out, I relaxed. I didn’t feel that familiar tug of anxiety, the need to be perfect, to not do anything wrong. Being with Brooklyn was different, and I drifted into deep, restful sleep. Best I’d had all week.
Until, of course, I was woken from that deep sleep by repeated chimes of Brooklyn’s doorbell and a chorus of barking from my dogs.
CHAPTER 8
BROOKLYN
“What the fuck?” I jolted awake with the noise.
Door chimes. That’s just your doorbell.
Yeah, but who the hell would be here at…
I squinted.
3:37
Well, okay then.
