Page 110 of Employing Patience

Having all of this wild, new information about Art is messing with my head. I’d originally been drawn to him for his fun, flirty, confident side, but this quiet vulnerability, this deep goodness? I’d never have known this side of him existed if he hadn’t given me the clues. And he did. Hand me the clues. Whether he believes it or not, I think deep down, Art wanted me to know. To know who he really is and to show me that he deserves love as much as the next person, even if I’m going to have to force that emotion down his throat.

Art’s worth the wait.

He wanted me to see that. And I do.

I deepen our kiss, lazily exploring his mouth with my tongue. His hands are roaming all over me in that way that makes me feel claimed. Wanted. I’m Art’s, and even if it’s not something he’s ready to admit out loud, he shows me every time we’re together.

“Is it time for the clothes to go yet?” he growls.

Fuck yes, it is. I push up onto my knees and strip out of my shirt while Art slowly pops the buttons on his. I’ll never get over how sexy he is. How … how … regal-looking. The urge to kneel at his feet is strong, especially when all he’s left in is his open shirt and underwear. All that gorgeous brown skin, ready for me to run my tongue over.

“Pants, Joey …”

The deep, commanding tone snakes through me like an aphrodisiac. “You didn’t say please.”

“Do I need to?” he asks.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“What if I say now instead?”

My exhale is shaky, and I scramble for my fly. “Yep. That works just as well.”

Even the cocky glint in his eyes doesn’t slow me down. If anything, it stirs the need higher. I feel branded everywhere his hands make contact, and when he pulls me down to kiss my throat, I want to beg him to bite me there. To claim me. To make it obvious to anyone who looks that I belong to him.

Maybe one day, the optimistic voice whispers in my ear. Maybe one day, you’ll be good enough to stand beside him. As equals.

Art called me a fighter. Well, then he should be prepared for me to fight for him.

As soon as I’m naked, I push Art’s shirt from his shoulders and down his arms, then wriggle it out from under him. Through his briefs, his hard cock is pressed against mine, and as much as I’d like to take my time and tease him, I also want to worship him. There’s nothing more important to me in this moment than showing him how incredible he is.

I trail my lips down his neck, lingering on his candied scent, and remember with a thrill that he left his bodywash for me. Art wanted to smell himself on me.

Oh, holy shit, that thought makes my cock throb.

“You sneaky bastard,” I say, then lick a stripe down to his nipple. It hardens beneath my lips as he shifts.

“What now?”

“Like the smell of your soap on me, did you?”

Art chuckles, low and husky and deep. “Maybe.”

“Did it turn you on? Marking your territory like that?”

“Seeing you covered in marks I’d put there, smelling like I’d been all over you … yeah. It was hot as fuck.”

“In that case, prepare to find my two-dollar skin stripper smuggled into your shower. I know where you live now. I can do these things.”

“I sometimes miss the bergamot.”

I lift my head, confused. “Is that what I smell like?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“Huh. All it smells like to me is cleaning chemicals. And it always made my skin feel tight after.”

“Hmm … remind me to give you another bottle of mine before you leave.”

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