Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(70)

I feel deeply entitled to the sour outlook with which I greet the day.

I’m too sore and miserable to go all the way into the kitchen and make myself a coffee. Instead, I piss, brush my teeth, splash my face, then stand at the sink, groaning at my reflection, the lines etched by pain, the dark circles under my eyes. “Fuck.”

Swearing under my breath, I amble back toward bed, then crawl in. God, lying down feels good.

The next thing I know is my house alarm’s beep, then the door falling shut. I hear his steps, brisk, familiar. A ridiculous smile tips the corner of my mouth. I’m half asleep, telling myself to wake up, look sharp, but there’s something so…right about lying here like a lump, knowing he’s coming—his kisses, his touch, his everything.

I groan at that thought, right as Oliver’s weight depresses the far side of my mattress.

Blinking open my eyes, I meet his. His smile lights up his whole face. “Hi,” he says.

I don’t have words for how good it feels, seeing him here; how much I need him. I take his hand, bring it to the aching muscles knitting my shoulders to my neck. “Hi,” I finally tell him, my voice hoarse and gravelly from sleep.

Oliver rubs my shoulder gently, before his hand slips into my hair, along my scalp. Fuck, I could just lie here, basking in his touch. Except that’s not what this morning is. This morning is me obliterating him with orgasms and stunning him with my sexual prowess.

Though Oliver seems to have forgotten that challenge he issued, because when I turn, about to give him a hard, crushing kiss, he smiles down at me, the morning lighting up his face. And then he just stares down at me, before bending close, pressing a deep kiss to my mouth. Velvet hot, wet, teasing. My mouth falls open as he clasps my jaw, his thumb stroking my bottom lip, his tongue finding mine. He kisses without restraint, with as much confidence and uninhibited joy as he does everything. I love how he kisses.

His clothes come off, fast, efficient, down to his boxer briefs. I whip back the sheet, and he slides inside, mouth finding mine again, hands in my hair. All I can do is moan at the pleasure. His mouth and mine, long, heavy muscles plastered against me, his erection jutting against my hip.

Fuck, it feels good. Every morning, I wake up in pain, but now pain’s sharpest edges are blunted just a little by the pleasure of his hand sliding down my body, his leg tangled with mine.

As I stare at him, he smiles a faint, lopsided smile that warms his face, brighter than the sun lighting up my room. And my heart cracks, spilling its fatal poison through my body, flooding my limbs, taking control.

No feelings, you fool. You promised yourself and him.

My hand drifts down the powerful, lean muscles of his arms, across his back. Sparks dance in my fingertips.

“You’re so fucking cute in the morning,” he says quietly.

I nip his throat, lave it with my tongue. “I am not cute.”

His smile widens as he rakes his fingers through my hair. “Your hair’s sticking straight up. You have a pillow crease on your cheek. You, Gavin Hayes, are unfairly cute right now. I say so.”

That’s it. No more pillow talk. Time for fucking. I try to reach behind me, going slow because it’s as fast as I can move when I first wake up, but a sharp pain pulses in my back. Groaning, I drop back into bed.

Oliver props himself on his elbow, glancing at the nightstand drawer. Reaching past me, he opens it. “Lube. Condoms. That what you wanted?”

I nod, tightly.

He smiles. “Just jumping right in, are we?”

“Damn right. Now lie down.”

He flops back, lube and condoms in hand, and grins wickedly. “Bossy.”

Easing onto my side, trying my best to ignore the fresh pain pulsing in my lower back, I run my hand over his pecs, tease his nipple with my thumb, first one, then the other. His eyes go hazy, and he brings a hand to my hair, playing with it as he looks at me. “Tell me,” he says.

“Tell you what?” I growl, pulling him in for a kiss.

He sighs against my mouth, threads his leg tighter with mine and gently drifts his hand down my back. “What hurts.”

“It’s fine,” I lie, holding in that truth and everything else I’m thinking. How beautiful he is in daylight, sun dancing off that halo of golden hair spread on my pillow, gilded hairs sparkling along his legs and arms and chest, arrowing down his flat, chiseled stomach. How perfect it feels, holding him, feeling him holding me.

My palm slides down his stomach, my knuckles teasing his hips, the edge of his underwear.

He’s not amused. “Gavin.”

A thrill dances through me, hearing my name on his lips. Then he presses up on his elbow, eye to eye with me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

He frowns, searching my eyes. “You’re in pain. We don’t have to—”

“Fucking touch me,” I beg, taking his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “I’ll tell you if something hurts, but just fucking touch me, Oliver. Now.”

His gaze intensifies, his thumb circling my palm. Silently, he presses into my shoulder, until I’m rolled onto my back, his eyes searching mine. “Okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

He slides his leg farther over mine, propped on his elbow, looming over me.

Historically, when I’ve been intimate with others, I’m in charge. It’s always felt natural, given my…leadership-oriented nature, my propensity to control and see strategy and boss people around. But with Oliver, there’s something clear as he slides his thigh higher over mine, his hand sinking into my hair as he stares down at me. He’s comfortable taking charge, too. Which I knew. I’ve seen it on the pitch, in training, during games. His is the kind of strength and self-possession that’s not wrapped in fury or aggression or acute impatience. It’s poise and calm, sureness in what he’s capable of, in what he wants.