Page 48 of In the Frame

And Florian’s definitely looking at me. I can tell that much from the corner of my eye. He’s obviously reading me, and who knows what he sees. The worst part is I already miss him pressing into me. And the arm.

At last, I sit up, rubbing my face. I turn to glance over.

Florian gives me a wry smile, his hair rumpled. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize…”

I cough. “It happens. I mean, I have the same problem.”

Our gazes linger. His expression is open, relaxed. Like he shares a bed with his fake conquests all the time and gets morning wood and can handle himself with some real self-restraint. Except… except I’m thinking some very unwholesome thoughts right now about my fake boyfriend.

He reaches out a tentative hand to stroke my arm. Like he’s testing the waters. Testing me.

I shudder, responsive even to the smallest touch. I can’t remember the last time I had a hookup. Pre-London. Definitely not with any kind of fake boyfriend. Back in Brighton. It was probably the graduation show opening night. When I went home with someone from the bar. It was fine, but nothing memorable.

Then it occurs to me I’ve been staring at Florian all this time. His mouth is slightly open, as if he’s ready to say something. And he’s blushing.

“I hope I…” he manages, “haven’t gone beyond the limits of our agreement.”

Then, taking whatever scraps of courage I have left, I lean in and kiss Florian. His arms slide around me, and his mouth melts. A gasp of delight escapes him, and he moves in to deepen the kiss. Florian runs his fingers along my jaw. Our kisses are searching, hungry, and definitely beyond whatever fake boyfriending line there might have been once. We pause long enough to search each other’s eyes.

“Okay?” he murmurs between kisses.

“More.”

Whatever caution I once had has been tossed aside. I straddle him. To kiss him all the more thoroughly. His hands catch my face, and I feel him harden more under me. I grip his shoulders, and his skin is like silk over muscle, and he’s radiating heat.

Something like a whimper escapes me between our increasingly urgent kisses. This time, there’s no lobby or street to stop us. And I can’t think about the fact that I’m kissing Florian—Florian!—and he’s delicious and just as hungry for me. After this, we can go back to our regular agreement, but rolling around and making out is a great start to the morning, even if I feel a little fuzzy from last night’s wine. All I know is I’m definitely, definitely into this.

We stop kissing long enough to catch our breath, and I gaze down at him. His fingers skim over my thighs.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No,” I confess. “I very much don’t want you to stop. Also, I… I’m tested.”

“As am I.” His hand traces my chest under my shirt.

A shudder ripples up my back, and I groan with pleasure, drunk on our lust this time rather than wine. Since this is definitely happening right now, I help him out by taking off my T-shirt. My physique isn’t like his, but it’s my body, and I like it well enough, and it’s been good to me.

And the way he looks up admiringly at me like I’m special. And wanted. It’s a lot. So, I kiss him hungrily again, and he sits up to wrap his arms around me, and next thing I know, I’m on my back, gasping as his mouth searches along my neck, my throat, my collarbone. I sink into the mattress. His fingers reach down to trace my belly and down to my cock. Then, I buck under him as he slides his hand inside my boxers, and my God, I really can’t handle this. Gasping, I dig my fingers into his shoulders before I reach out a hand to tease him through his boxers, straining against the fabric. I do the sensible thing and release him, and the head of his cock is already slick with precum, and it’s so fucking hot.

I lift my hips to help him slide off my boxers as he searches my eyes in question. He’s so careful with me, even if we’re both desperate for the other’s touch, craving him. I nod ever so slightly. I have him half out of his shorts, and he shoves them down as he kneels beside me.

Then, bracing myself on my elbow, I shift to flick the head of his cock with my tongue, and Florian spasms. I grab his arse and tease him, tracing the pink head. Tasting him.

“God… Matty…” Florian breathes, his fingers in my hair.

I draw him deeper into my mouth, and he shudders as my fingers grip his toned arse. All I want is him in this moment. I work a rhythm with my hand and mouth ’til he jerks and presses slightly against my shoulders. I flop onto my back and then nearly explode on the spot as he moves down between my thighs and immediately takes me deep.

I cry out, gripping the bedsheets, his shoulders, anything as I thrust with him. “Fuck—yeah⁠—”

He’s relentless.

“I need you inside me—” I beg. And then I nearly die a second time as his tongue shows no mercy and teases my opening. My hips rise off the bed. I writhe with pleasure, overwhelmed, like every nerve is alight. Then, with plenty of saliva, he strokes himself as he enters me with a finger and then two fingers and at last starts to press his cock into me, his gaze unwavering.

“Florian, Florian…” I’m desperate, covered in a sheen of perspiration by the time he’s pressing and then he’s inside me holy fuck and I can’t think or breathe, and I need to relax. Blood rushes in my ears as I arch my back.