#also no shade to Brian since those are his teenage years glasses and it was before Harry Potter

[tumbleweed-palmer]

No offense to Jimmy...I'm sure Harry Potter impersonators are very fulfilled in their daily lives...

[rougespecial-blog]

sweetheart hand pt. 2 // brian may

summary: a continuation of sweetheart hand. after the party, the (art) studio.

a/n: mostly fluff and then some smut. sorry for the delay! if tumblr hasn’t sorted out their tagging shit by now...... hm. this is around 5,400 words. i was thinking about this twombly work when i was describing the painting. also can you believe this image cause i can’t.

there’s something terrifying and invigorating in equal measure about a blank canvas. you stare the expanse of white down determinedly, crossing your arms and trying to conjure something up in your mind’s eye. it’s a beast of a thing, five feet tall and six feet wide, and anything you try to visualise comes up short. fuck it. you’ve been avoiding it for weeks. you’ll just have to dive in.

you’ve hit almost every mark of your normal afternoon pre-painting routine - the curtains are thrown back to let the natural light in, you’ve made yourself a strong cup of tea and there’s a note on the door in case anyone decides to call around. the only thing left is to take the phone off the hook. it’s an old bakelite monster with a rotary dial - you could afford to replace it, but you’re fond of its look. plus, the horrible, grating sound of its ring is reason alone to stop it from disturbing your painting.

well. not that you normally have any hesitations about it. you haven’t done anything so undignified as waiting around for someone to call since you were a teenager.

———-

it was only after you’d kissed brian on saturday night that you realised you’d probably been a goner since he leaned carefully against the kitchen counter and asked you for a glass of champagne. the hours you spent with him had been so easy, slipping by in what felt like minutes. there was a quiet measure in the way he carried himself, the deliberate way he chose his words even when he was speaking a million miles an hour.

and the kiss itself. not the first, really, but the second one. the one he pressed to the softest part of your inner wrist. watching you with those clear eyes, the whole thing so stupidly intimate that it made your breath catch in your throat. after that, there was no hope at all. you had mumbled something absently about fixing the record, pulled back - hesitant but dimly aware you needed to gather your thoughts for a moment. when you turned away from the record player he was standing there all tall and willowy, waiting for you, arms folded. there was the slightest tilt to his head, the way men ask questions. yes, you had thought, in response to nothing in particular. and you kissed him again.

when you found tom at the end of the night - or start of the morning, rather - and asked him to call a cab, he had taken one look at you and grinned from ear to ear. you knew you were probably an embarrassing colour, lips flushed and clothes slightly askew. you didn’t even want to think about the state of your hair. he was bitterly disappointed, though, when he started to interrogate you in the taxi home.

‘was he good?’ you shot him an incredulous look. ‘that’s none of your business.’ ‘oh, my god. you didn’t shag him?’ ‘don’t make me dignify that with an answer, please.’ ‘i can’t believe you.’

it was a reaction you were accustomed to from tom - the polite term for his taste in lovers would be indiscriminate - but you found that you couldn’t even muster up pretend-annoyance at his prying questions. you were too content, watching the city slip by and thinking that your memory of the past few hours already felt like the kind of vivid dream you have on the edge of waking up - the ones you want desperately to remember. you had just kissed brian - for an age, like a teenager - curled up on a loveseat, paying no mind at all to the few strangers in the room. his hands were gentle at your neck, in your hair, under your blouse. you’ve been a grown woman for a while now, and you still felt your stomach flip when he touched his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

———-

it’s monday morning, now, and you haven’t shaken the feeling. it’s elusive, almost intangible - somewhere between anxiety and anticipation, the feeling of closing your eyes before a kiss. you had taken a pen and scrawled your number on brian’s arm before you left, pressing your lips to the last digit, right at the crease of his elbow. as a joke, mostly. but he had promised he would call so seriously that you found yourself believing him. stupid, you know, the idea that he wouldn’t meet a hundred women as charming as you and twice as good looking every weekend. better to enjoy it for what it was.

still, you leave the phone on the hook.

you’re a little embarrassed with yourself as you make your way to your palette (more of a drop sheet these days, really) and begin to mix. you wonder briefly about the colour of embarrassment, but the more paint you pour the more you realise what you’re after is the colour of a glance. a colour that looks the way someone else’s mouth tastes. it goes on in broad strokes - you want to cover the canvas in it, to feel like you’re wrapped in it. the shade you end up with is a champagne pink like sunburn, streaked through with hints of a vivid red. a little derivative, maybe, but you can work more into it.

your studio is the ground floor of your townhouse, what used to be a fairly spacious foyer and sitting room. creating it had been a labour of love over an entire spring a few years back. your own handiwork, mostly, tearing out walls, painting, varnishing until you ended up with the space you wanted. a good half of the floor space is covered in tarpaulin, with canvases, paint and brushes strewn wherever you like. it looks chaotic, but you know where everything is at a moment’s notice and there’s no one here to ‘helpfully’ tidy up after you - one of the main reasons you had to stop sharing a studio with tom. the rest of the room is still half a lounge, mostly wasted due to your reluctance to let guests in. things you’ve collected yourself and gifts from friends fill the place - huge potted plants, turkish rugs, a gorgeous painted trunk tom brought home from glasgow. and, of course, the ‘lounge’, a low-slung thing that’s mostly an excessive collection of pillows and throw blankets. for when you inevitably need something to throw yourself on mid-work, convinced you’ve never painted anything halfway decent in your life.

your canvas is totally awash in grey and pink, stained with red - like the blood-shock colour around the pit of a peach - when the phone rings. you nearly drop your paintbrush getting to it, only stopping to admonish yourself for being so pathetic. you let it ring once, twice more, and then pick it up.

‘hello?’ ‘hi, er - is this an alright time?’ you smile to yourself, tracing a groove in the wooden sideboard with your fingertip. ‘i’d say so, yeah.’ ‘great, that’s - oh, fuck, sorry. i haven’t - it’s brian. you know, from saturday night.’ ‘brian from saturday night? i’m not sure i - oh - wouldn’t happen to be a maths teacher, would you?’ his laugh is bright and genuine. ‘i think we got halfway through a good chat about fractals and then something came up.’ ‘of course. i’ve really been hanging out to finish that.’ ‘well, does this afternoon work? i can pick you up if you feel like a coffee.’ you pause, glancing over at your canvas. ‘i’m slightly in the middle of something,’ you confess. ‘on a bit of a momentum swing.’ ‘oh, of course. i should’ve - bit of short notice, sorry. are you free next -? i mean, if you’re not -’ your cheeks are nearly hurting from your smile, now. ‘brian. did you want to pop around instead, maybe? i’ll make you some coffee.’ he pauses for a moment, as if taken aback. you wonder if he thought you were just trying to avoid seeing him. silence, still. you falter a little. ‘or - you know, tea. if you’d prefer. it’s not contingent on the drink.’ ‘are you painting?’ the question surprises you, along with the shyly hopeful way he asks it. you look over at the canvas, at the layers of vivid underpainting starting to form something.

‘i am, actually.’ ‘sorry, it’s just - i remember you mentioning on saturday night that you didn’t really like anyone around your studio while you’re working.’ ‘i do make exceptions, you know.’ ‘that’s what i mean,’ he laughs. ‘i like being the exception.’

your exception arrives not a half-hour after you give him your address and hang up, with a knock at the door so gentle you nearly don’t notice it. you know it’s him, but you glance through the peephole anyway. he’s waiting patiently, clutching something in brown paper under his arm. the shade of stubble across his face is darker than saturday, and he’s wearing a pinstriped linen shirt that only makes him look leaner. he grins when you open the door, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. ‘this note,’ he laughs, gesturing at the handwritten thing you’d attached to your door. ‘i’ve never known a lady to say such things -’ ‘oh, piss off. artists are persistent types. you have to be clear.’

you lead him in, and it takes you a moment to realise that he’s paused in the threshold of the studio, looking around. ‘this is gorgeous,’ he says. ‘you’re telling me you keep it all to yourself?’ ‘mostly,’ you shrug. ‘i wanted to say - sort of a thank you, i guess, for letting me -’ he holds the paper bag out to you, one nervous hand moving to the back of his neck as you take it. you bite down on a smile. a book, and two blood oranges. you look up to him to say thank you, but he starts rambling before you can. ‘the oranges were just - god, your neighbour has the loveliest tree hanging over their fence, i suppose you’ve noticed, and you mentioned that you forget to eat when you’re painting - so i just grabbed them - and i thought the colour of them was so brilliant -’ ‘thank you, brian -’ ‘the book’s the main thing, of course, it was outside that old bookshop on king and i saw mark rothko and thought of you straight away, so there’s - you might already have a copy -’ ‘i don’t. really, thank you. i love them.’ he finally quiets, smiling softly. you lean up towards him, in what might have originally been a plan to kiss his cheek that quickly became sidetracked. you have never been known for self control. he makes a soft, surprised noise as your lips meet his but responds quickly, bringing a hand to your jaw. ‘thank you,’ you tell him again.

you set your gifts down on the coffee table, gesturing for him to make himself comfortable somewhere among the clutter. ‘i can make you a cup of coffee or something - i’d just like to finish up this corner, and then you’ll have my undivided attention.’ ‘take as long as you like,’ he says earnestly. it’s only then that he takes a proper look at the work in progress behind you. his mouth falls open slightly as he leans forward to inspect it. ‘you can get closer, if you like,’ you smile. ‘it’s not a gallery.’ ‘it bloody well should be,’ he says. you might have rolled your eyes if someone else had said it. ‘did you - this is all you? god, it’s brilliant.’ ‘careful, i’ll get a massive head. it’s really only a tenth done. if that.’ ‘well, yes, it’s unfinished - but there’s such a sense of motion - the colour, it’s like -’ ‘it’s a kiss,’ you say, half unsure of whether you sound insane. ‘it’s a painting of a kiss, i suppose.’ the look he gives you is brilliant, his eyes full of quiet mirth but also a certain fondness. nothing needs to be said, really. ‘i’ll go and get you that coffee.’

when you come back downstairs he’s pacing the room carefully, taking in the works littered around the place. he tilts his head - something you’re starting to realise is a habit - as if considering each one in turn. you’d feel scrutinised if it was anyone else, almost embarrassed. you’ve been painting for half your life and still aren’t really used to the feeling of strangers looking at your work. but with brian, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a stranger. you indulge yourself for a minute, perched at the bottom of the stairs, watching him.

‘fair’s fair,’ you call out eventually. he turns to you, an eyebrow raised in question. you nod at the acoustic guitar leaning against the lounge. it was a gift from a friend, and you’ve always liked the look of it even if you have no idea how to play. ‘i’ve shown you mine. let’s see yours.’ ‘excuse me,’ he laughs. ‘you’ve seen mine. at the launch party, remember?’ ‘that was different,’ you say, crossing the room to hand him the cup of coffee. ‘you had a band, and an adoring audience. that would be like seeing my work with all the trimmings at a big gallery opening. this is just me. now i want just you.’ he chuckles at your point, but doesn’t argue it. sitting down, his legs are almost too long for the sagging lounge. he places the coffee at his feet and picks up the guitar. ‘any requests?’ you know he’s being facetious, poking fun at your total lack of knowledge where his music is concerned. as of last time you met, that is.

you sit next to him, curling your feet under you and leaning on the back of the lounge comfortably. ‘i do have one, thanks very much,’ you say. ‘i forced tom to loan me one of your albums. he had the first one -’ ‘christ, you’re being serious -’ ‘- and it’s the second track, i think about a minute in - there’s this lovely little guitar part. i mean, it might be lovely, i haven’t the faintest if it’s actually special.’ ‘doing alright, you mean.’ he’s smiling the same way he did when you realised he wasn’t a maths teacher - looking perfectly amused. ‘that’s the one. i’m no good with names.’

carefully, he starts to tune the guitar. you laugh at his initial wince - it hasn’t been tuned properly since you got it, you suspect. when he’s satisfied, he strums a tentative few chords and gives you a cautionary look. ‘i haven’t played this song in a little while,’ he warns. ‘i’ll be forwarding all feedback to rolling stone,’ you say, and he huffs out a laugh, elbows you half-heartedly.

the light, pretty melody that’s been stuck in your head since you first heard it sounds infinitely lovelier being played right in front of you. you’re about to say as much when brian surprises you with a line of the song. should be waiting for the sun, he sings, half under his breath. you had no clue he even could.

he looks up and locks eyes with you, plays a few more notes and then falters to a stop. ‘sorry,’ he says, his smile sheepishly crooked. ‘you just - that felt like stage fright, for a moment there.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m extremely intimidating,’ you joke. ‘well, that, and…’ he trails off, looking towards your unfinished canvas, then back to you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. ‘i’d really love to kiss you again, if that’s -’

you don’t give him time to finish the sentence. he barely has time to move the guitar out of the way, mindful of the fresh mug of coffee on the floor, as you close the distance between the two of you and kiss him resolutely. he cards a hand through your hair to cradle the nape of your neck, and you feel the press of rings you hadn’t taken notice of before. it’s hard to get proper leverage sitting side-on like this, so - without really being cognisant of what you’re doing, more running on instinct - you sling one leg over his and straddle his lap. he breaks the kiss, leaning his head back. you sense he’s thinking the same thing that you are - that this is where you finished off the last time you saw each other.

‘i haven’t stopped thinking about this since saturday night,’ he says. his hand is still resting in your hair, and he curls his fingers in it gently. he has some of the loveliest hands you’ve ever seen on a man, you think. one is resting on your thigh, and you trace a fingertip along the ridge of his knuckles. ‘i always take the phone off the hook when i paint,’ you confess. ‘but i couldn’t. not while i was thinking that you might call. is that ridiculous?’ ‘thinking that i might call? i mean, that’s ridiculous. the idea that i wouldn’t.’ you smirk, slipping a hand under the neck of his shirt to rest at his collarbone. he’s warm beneath you, and you can feel his steady heartbeat. ‘you’re a rockstar, brian. don’t bullshit. i’ll know.’ you nod at your impromptu lie detector, your palm pressed against his heart.

‘no bullshit. alright, then.’ he rocks forward, catching you with a hand at the curve of your back. ‘sunday morning, i called half the artist collectives in london asking after you. i wanted to see your works before i saw you again.’ ‘so you could decide whether or not to pursue me?’ he laughs, ducking his head and pressing a soft kiss to your chest. ‘so i could understand you better. i thought it’d be like a window into your thoughts. but then the only collective who knew you -’ ‘drunk tank?’ ‘- that’s the one - they told me you were all sold out at the moment, and the only gallery pieces you had were at some place that didn’t open until tuesday - so i thought, sod it, i’ll come and see them in person.’ he raises his eyebrows expectantly. you pretend to mull the story over, biting your lip. ‘it’ll do.’ he clasps a hand around yours, clutching it to his chest. ‘it’ll do! have you ever felt a pulse this honest?’

‘alright,’ you concede, laughing. ‘now mine.’ you take his hand, pressing his fingertips against the base of your throat. ‘sunday morning, i woke up at tom’s around midday and the first thing i asked him was -’ ‘hang on,’ brian mutters. ‘can’t quite get it properly -’ you cut yourself off, inhale sharply as he kisses your neck, openmouthed. ‘go on,’ he mumbles. he runs his tongue along the pulse point, teeth grazing against your skin. ‘prick,’ you laugh, curling one of your hands in his hair. ‘the first thing i asked him was if he had any queen records, and he laughed at me, but loaned me your first.’ ‘god, you’re sweet,’ brian says fondly, but he’s distracted, kissing further down your neck. those careful hands at your ribcage, inching the hem of your shirt up.

impatient, you pull the shirt over your head. you’re not wearing anything underneath - you never do at home. he makes a short, pleased noise when this becomes obvious, almost a disbelieving laugh. his hands are fleeting, wanting to be everywhere. his lean fingers, silver-ringed, teasing against your ribcage, breasts, nipples. you arch your back into the touch, feeling - somehow - even less inhibited than you were on saturday night.

you make short work of the buttons on his shirt, parting it to reveal what shouldn’t be the body of a rockstar - there’s a grace to him, a certain lightness - there’s the height, of course, and he’s broad in the shoulders but still somewhat delicate. you love the look of him. the dark hair beneath his arms and between his hips, the line of his collarbones, the pronounced adam’s apple. as you’re taking him in he doesn’t stop touching you, leaning forward with one hand spanned across your back, kissing the inside curve of your breast.

it’s tempting to just let him keep going at this forever. his attention is ardent, eyes closed, taking one nipple in his mouth and running his thumb over the other until they’re so sensitive it makes you whine. when he gently pinches one and rolls it between his fingers you gasp, grinding your hips down against his. he groans, humming against your skin, the vibration sending a shudder through you.

it’s with complete seriousness that he looks up at you and says your name. ‘yeah?’ he presses a wet kiss to your sternum, hands still at your breasts. glances up again. ‘you can have me,’ he says, ‘any way you want me.’ you feel your stomach drop when he says it, taking in the earnest look and the shining eyes and the flush that reaches his shoulders. you press your splayed fingertips into the middle of his chest. ‘finish undressing, then,’ you tell him, half-smiling.

you watch him shrug off the rest of his clothes as you stand and step out of your jeans. before, the sight of him in your studio felt natural, comforting. now it sends an electric thrill through you, the diminishing evening light casts over him as he lounges back and waits for you. you move to kneel over him and he rests a hand on your thigh, otherwise waiting for you to decide. his cock is jutting hard against his lower abdomen. you trace a hand gently up it and feel his palm twitch against you as he tenses.

‘what did you want?’ you ask him, thoughtful. ‘on saturday night?’ ‘i wanted to know everything there was to know about you,’ he says, his voice raw. you wrap your hand around his cock to punctuate your meaning. ‘i mean - what did you want?’ the sound he makes is half laugh, half shaky groan as you touch him. ‘i wanted to fuck you right there,’ he says, ‘everyone else be damned. i wanted to make you come.’

his hand trails up from your thigh to between your spread legs, his index finger tracing a teasing line. when he feels how wet you are, he groans. ‘i wanted to feel this,’ he continues, running his guitar-calloused fingertips over your clit. you balance yourself with a hand at his chest, still touching his cock in slow tandem with what he’s doing to you.

when you edge forward and lower yourself over him, aligning yourself, the head slides against your clit and his breath catches. he’s propped up on his elbows to watch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. there’s a stillness to him as you take him inside, giving you time as you adjust to the stretch. when you bottom out, all of him inside you, he tips his head back and swears hotly, the end of it turning into a groan. he brings one hand to you, touching your clit as you rock your hips back and forth.

‘just like that,’ he murmurs. ‘get yourself off on me, come on -’ he starts raising his hips to meet your movements, just slightly, enough that you feel impossibly full, the press of him deep inside. when you arch a certain way he hits a spot that nearly knocks the wind out of you. he must see your reaction, the way your eyes flutter shut in bliss, because he laughs, fondly, and thrusts up again at the same angle. you can’t stop the moan that escapes you, then. he hums, delighted, quickening the slip of his thumb over you and touching your face gently with his other hand. ‘god, you’re not far off, are you?’

you can only shake your head no. it’s a little embarrassing, but you’ve been keyed up since saturday and all there is now is the desperate need to finally come. you turn and kiss his palm, bite the heel of his thumb gently. he squeezes you minutely, affectionately. he’s hit your rhythm, in perfect tandem with your body, a shine of sweat across his chest. you clutch at him as the wave of your orgasm starts to pool in your belly. he fucks up into you, gasping, the hands that were gently touching you now gripping your thighs tightly. almost accidentally, he hits that angle and you nearly collapse forward, your orgasm hitting sharply. when he’s sure you’ve ridden it out - sure that he can’t tease anything more out of you - only then does he collapse back against the lounge, stomach clenching with his deep breaths and - there it is - soft laughter.

‘my god,’ he says, slinging an arm across his eyes. ‘i’d imagined it. but i couldn’t- you looked perfect.’

when you think your legs are working again you raise yourself from him, gently, moving to kneel beside the couch. when he realises what you’re doing he sits up, tries to assure you that you don’t have to, but you quiet him. ‘i want to,’ you say. ‘besides, i haven’t got - ah - anything.’ and he laughs at that, laughs until he’s cut off with a groan as you take him in your mouth.

it doesn’t take long, his hands in your hair, warm against the cradle of your neck. when you glance up he’s watching carefully from eyes half-lidded. a gaze that would be filthy from across the room, let alone now. after a moment he finds your hand at his thigh, gives it a polite, if desperate, clutch as a warning. he holds his breath as he’s about to come and then releases it in a string of profanity, of your name, of wordless moans.

lying back against cushions and blankets - half of them strewn on the floor in your hurry to get into his lap - you watch him watching you. you can’t help but be reminded of sitting in that armchair across from him at the party, feeling helplessly seen. not just that appraising look of his but some of the things he said, striking insights into the way you think. he reaches over to trace his fingers up the inside of your arm.

‘penny for your thoughts?’ ‘i never got to finish that corner,’ you say. he chuckles as he pulls himself to stand, tugging his boxers and trousers back on. you take his linen shirt from the heap on the lounge and slip it on, doing up a couple of buttons. as you stand up and step back into your underwear, he’s shaking his head at you. ‘i won’t make you leave without it,’ you laugh. ‘indulge me.’ he relents, picking his coffee up from the foot of the sofa. it must be completely cold by now. ‘did you -?’ you bite your lip, apologetic. ‘i might have to make you a fresh one.’ he waves his hand dismissively. ‘i can manage. do you want one?’ ‘that would be lovely, actually. the kitchen is upstairs, to the left.’

you wander over to your painting, your tools untouched since brian’s arrival. taking a slender paintbrush and a board covered in silver-grey paint, you slowly track a thin line across some of the pink, thick enough that it drips down the canvas. the look of it is ephemeral, spectral over the shocking red. you hear brian’s footsteps down the stairs. they slow when he notices that you’re painting. it takes all of your effort to stay facing your work, finish the line by tapering it off into a swathe of ghostly white. by then he’s right behind you, close enough to lean in and kiss the back of your neck. the work can wait. you turn and he hands you a mug of coffee.

‘so what does a monday evening look like for you?’ shit. you’d mostly forgotten about the outside world. ‘there’s this exhibition opening tonight,’ you say. ‘friend of a friend of a friend. i’ve been sort of dreading it for a while now, but that’s how these industry things are.’ ‘stay in, then. with me.’ he’s so matter of fact that you nearly laugh. ‘i can’t - there’s an expectation, i guess - sort of an etiquette thing -’ ‘you’re sick. you’ve come down with something awful.’ ‘and instead?’ ‘instead we can go up the road for a bottle of wine and some dinner,’ he says. ‘you can complain about these industry types, i’ll make you laugh effortlessly, you’ll be dying to see me again.’ you roll your eyes at him, taking a sip of your coffee. ‘that first part sounded alright.’ he sticks out his lower lip, humming as he pretends to weigh it up. ‘alright. let’s start there.’

you almost feel like you’re getting away with something - the rush of bunking class in high school - as you walk over to the phone and set your coffee down. you don’t realise until you’ve dialled tom’s number and it’s started to ring that brian has followed behind you. you don’t pay it much mind until you hear one knee hit the floor with a soft thud. you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wide, and mouth something along the lines of what are you doing? he only grins. he knows exactly what he’s doing. his broad hands are at your thighs, gently turning you to face him. as he runs a thumb upwards, pressing against your inner thigh, tom picks up the phone.

‘hello?’ ‘hi - tom - it’s me,’ you say, flustered. ‘hello, darling. where am i meeting you tonight?’ brian leans in and kisses the top of your thigh, then noses at your underwear. one of your hands flies to his head, curling in his hair. ‘um - that’s the thing,’ you manage, slightly impressed with yourself. ‘i don’t think i can make it.’ ‘oh, god, why on earth not? don’t make me do it alone.’ in one sudden movement, brian leans in and hooks your leg over his shoulder and pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, pressing his mouth against you. you gasp, leaning back against the sideboard for balance. knowing it’s probably a losing battle, you try to hide the sound in a fake cough anyway. ‘i’m sick, tom - really sick -’ you cough again to stop yourself making a  helpless sound as brian licks over you, hot and insistent - ‘- i’ve been really tired all day.’ ‘oh, you bitch. you’re with him now, aren’t you?’ brian looks up at you, the same dark, intent look in his eyes as the one just before you’d kissed him. one hand holding your thigh for leverage, the other at your cunt, a long finger pressing inside you. ‘yes,’ you say - more of a squeak, really. ‘sorry - i’llmakeituptoyou.’

you all but slam the phone into the cradle, leaning back, finally letting out the sound you’d been keeping in - albeit barely. brian sucks a wet kiss over your clit, then turns his head to graze his lips against your thigh, his stubble scratching gently. ‘that was extremely underhanded,’ you tell him, breath heaving. ‘sorry,’ he says, though his crooked grin tells you he’s not in the slightest. ‘i thought i could wait until you were finished, but the way you looked…’ ‘the way i looked answering the phone?’ ‘yes, answering the phone.’ he kisses your thigh again, nipping the skin playfully between his teeth. ‘or walking to the phone.’ another kiss. ‘or hearing the phone ring.’ you scoff at him, rolling your eyes. ‘come on. don’t act like i’m the first man you’ve brought to his knees,’ he says. ‘oh, that was good! now i know where all these lyrics come from.’ ‘i’ve been told i’m a natural crowd pleaser.’ you slip your leg off his shoulder and nudge him with your knee half-heartedly. too pleased, too satisfied, too smitten to really tease him back. ‘come up here, then. show me.’