His room, like mine, took up one whole end of his house. It included a big master bathroom toward the backyard that had a double basin, separate shower and the toilet was in its own little room. There was a walk-in closet, only one, but it was huge. The fixtures weren’t old, it had been renovated and that was done sometime relatively recently. Perhaps not last year but if I had to guess, in the last five. If I didn’t have the bathroom to beat all bathrooms and three trust funds that meant I could create any bathroom I wanted, it would have been amazing.

The walls of the bedroom were painted a slate gray that worked with the wood baseboards and amazing tongue and groove ceiling, the wood so dark it was nearly black. He had a fireplace too, one with a stone hearth like the others in his house. That was situated against the wall across from his king-sized, mission-style bed.

He had slate gray sheets that had a sateen sheen. He also had a duvet with a cover, his in dark gray with a hexagon pattern, the lines making the design burgundy.

Between bed and bathroom, there was a large hunk of floor space that he’d filled with two matching club chairs. They shared an ottoman, a sturdy but attractive end table and a standing lamp made in brass. The chairs were covered with clothes (apparently, Mickey didn’t hit the laundry hamper with his clothes either, it looked like he hadn’t done laundry since I met him).

It was clean, though not tidy, exceptionally masculine…and all Mickey.

I loved it.

So I lay happily tangled in his sheets in that room, still feeling Mickey between legs, loafing, snoozing and floating.

“Babe.”

I wasn’t asleep, exactly.

But my eyes were closed.

I opened them to see Mickey in clean work clothes standing beside the bed.

“Time for me to go?” I asked languidly.

“That, right there,” he stated.

I studied him, unsure of his statement, his tone or the intense look on his face.

I began to push up and Mickey ordered, “Don’t fuckin’ move.”

I stilled but held his gaze and whispered, “What’s going on, Mickey?”

“I walked out of my bathroom to that every morning for sixteen years, no way in fuck I’d walk away from it.”

I drew in a sharp breath and remained unmoving as that cut through me and I felt the release.

It wasn’t a bleed.

It was like opening an aching blister to get the fetid ooze out.

“He doesn’t know. He might never know,” Mickey carried on. “But do you know how fuckin’ stupid he is?”

“No,” I replied. “But I do know how fucking lucky I am right now.”

I watched his reaction to that flash in his eyes, but he remained distant until he took the last two steps to the bed and leaned over me.