“I went into the office today for just a few hours, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I was so distracted, I walked straight into a wall. I kept remembering you, that night, how you moved beneath me, every gasp and hungry kiss. I kept remembering how warm you were, how good you smelled.” He kisses my neck, the tender space behind my ear, his voice dark and quiet. “How badly I wanted to taste you, to drive you wild with my hands and mouth and feel you come all over my cock.”

“Jamie.” That stern voice, those rough words. It’s my undoing. I slip my hands up his chest, savoring the sharp planes of his torso, the curve of his pecs. I’m restless, turned on, desperate.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he says quietly, his fingertips slipping beneath my pants’ waistband.

“You know what,” I whisper shakily.

“I want you to tell me,” he says, teasing me, lower and lower, so close to where I’m wet and dying to be touched. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need you so bad,” I babble, rubbing myself against his hand. “I need to be naked, and I need you to touch me. Please, please—”

On a soft growl, Jamie shucks my sweats and fuzzy socks, then throws them over his shoulder. I don’t have time to make a joke about his uncharacteristic messiness because his expression silences me.

“What is it?” I ask, after a long stretch of quiet.

His eyes search my body. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful. It hurts.” He sets a hand over his heart and pats softly. “Right here.”

I hold his eyes, affection blooming in my chest. “Let me see all of you, too.”

After one more deep kiss, he pushes off the mattress and stands at the foot of the bed. Taking off his glasses, he sets them on his dresser. He looks different and so impossibly, dearly, the same.

“Can you see me okay?” I ask.

“It’s a bit fuzzy from here,” he admits. “But closer, I’ll see fine.”

My heart pounds, staring at him, illuminated by the fire’s flames and the soft glow of the tea lights. Just like the first night I saw him, all I can think is how I want to draw and sculpt and paint him, capturing every dip of shadow, every plane of light.

Jamie steps neatly out of his joggers, making the sharp muscles in his arms and torso flex as he moves.

I stare at him and feel my bare legs rub together. “You’re a work of art, James.”

A blush hits his cheeks. “I . . .” He clears his throat. “Thank you.”