I crouch over Misha, panting and riding his cock hard. I can already feel the tell-tale tingle in my balls, and I lean back, clutching his thighs and feeling my hair hit the sweaty skin on my back. “Oh God,” I groan.

I spread my legs wide and strong hands grip my hips, guiding the fast and dirty grind I’ve instigated. Misha grunts as I squeeze my muscles tight around his cock. “Fuck,” he mutters and gives a low stuttered groan as his cock jerks inside me. I watch his face contort, his mouth open as he pants through his climax, and then I close my eyes as he grabs my dick in his big hand, and I spurt over his fingers.

For a long few minutes, the room is silent as we lie panting and occasionally groaning as aftershocks hit us, and then I grab the base of his cock, securing the condom as I lever off him.

We both moan, and I collapse into the sheets next to him as he removes the condom and ties a knot in it before throwing it into the bin next to the bed.

“I’ll clean up in a minute,” I mutter.

“No need.” He grabs the base of the duvet and dabs my stomach and hand before wiping his dick. I chuckle and he shoots me a look, his eyes bright in his face. “What?”

“Haven’t you ever read any romance novels, Misha? This is the point at which you’d go into the bathroom and get a wet towel and then clean me tenderly.”

“How do you clean someone tenderly?” he asks, mystification rich in his voice.

I smile. “I’ll give you a clue. Not with bedsheets.”

“Charlie, we’re going to stick this in the wash today anyway, and it’s king size.” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Better than an itty-bitty Kleenex. At least you’re properly clean and not lying in a wet patch.”

He reaches over and adjusts the massive pile of books that have quickly accumulated on my bedside table since I’ve been spending every night in his bed. “This is like the Leaning Tower of fucking Pisa, Charlie,” he says disapprovingly. “One day, this will collapse and fall on you. It will instantly knock you out, and it will all be the fault of you and your bookworm tendencies, and I shall make sure to tell you that.”

“I need to read them,” I protest. “They’re the Printz Book Award entries.”

“Even worse,” he sniffs.

I look at him and smile. “You don’t like the Printz Award? Well, quelle surprise.”

He sits up to examine the top book, putting his hand out as the stack teeters. He shoots me a speaking glance, and I laugh. “Look at this,” he scoffs. “So pretentious. I always think the top book awards are like that story of the emperor’s new clothes.”

“Someone wanders around naked?” I ask, mystified.