Page 62 of The Hitman’s Final Job

My brain scrambles when his hand moves down to tightly grip my erection. I’m not bored; I am the opposite of bored.

Silas pushes the sheets aside and shifts above me, covering me practically head to toe and trapping our erections between us.

“Good morning,” he says, with great satisfaction.

“Morning,” I manage.

He spits on his hand and wraps it around both our cocks. My hips come off the bed involuntarily.

“We’re going to ruin these clean sheets,” I say.

“I don’t care,” he says, starting to move his hand. “I’ll do the laundry later.”

“Fuck, Silas.” His strokes are slow and deliberate, his lips curling into a teasing smile.

“I have you right where I want you, Vaughn Reeves. Now you’re at my mercy.”

If only he knew how true that is.

It doesn’t take long for him to get me right on the edge of the orgasm, which is surprising considering it’s not even four hours since he woke me up by sucking my cock down the back of his throat, making me come so quickly that at first I thought I was having a wet dream.

I’d followed by sucking and fucking his hole with my tongue until he was a rambling mess. I managed to move and catch his cum with my mouth by a split second, avoiding a mid-night bedsheet change.

My head is filled with Silas. Last night, right now. He consumes me.

We come together with his hand working us both through it.

“I was hoping we’d be too spent to make a mess,” Silas says. “Looks like I’m doing laundry.”

“You did volunteer.”

We use Silas’s shower. The shampoo is different from the one in my bathroom. The soap is the same. The shower is not entirely focused on getting clean.

Afterward, as we dry off, Silas says, “We need to have sex in every room of this house and every corner before I leave.”

“It’s good to have goals in life.”

“I’m a motivated person,” he says.

“There’s the kitchen,” I comment, moving closer to him and already thinking about bending him over the counter. “The living room. The study⁠—”

“The lab.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “That’s a professional space.”

“Fair enough. The garden.”

“No.”

“The vegetable patch specifically,” he says. “I feel like⁠—”

I kiss him, and it turns out to be the most efficient way to shut him up.

“The garden,” I say, when we break apart, “is not happening.”

He opens his mouth, but I kiss him again.

Breakfast is eggs and the last of Tess’s sourdough, which Silas prepares while I make coffee. We eat at the kitchen table in the morning light, and even though this is something we’ve done most days, today feels different. I’m not running to the lab to avoid the pain of being around him and not being able to touch him.