One hand wet with his come, I manage to tug my slacks up with the other, tucking my half-hard cock into them but not bothering with the zipper. When Oliver turns and drags his fingers through my hair, I smile up at him and bring my index finger to my mouth, cheekily holding his gaze as I lick his come from the pad of it, cheeks hollowing briefly as I suck it clean. The taste of it is salty and slightly bitter, not bad but not great either, but I love tasting him in such a concentrated form. More than that, I love the look on his face when I do it.

“Come on, sweetheart. I haven’t fucked the life out of you,” I tell him, curling my arm around his waist as I lead him toward the stairs. Tomorrow morning I’ll come down and tidy up, wipe down the counters and perhaps light a candle, but right now I’m thinking only of him. “Not yet, anyway.”

We only make it halfway up the stairs before I turn to pull him into a kiss. I only mean for it to be a brief peck, but it quickly turns into something deeper, and I suck on his tongue for a bit before pulling away and pushing admonishingly at his chest, as if he started it. “Stop distracting me.”