Love In Slow Motion (Love Beyond Measure #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,95
to bask in the way it left him sated and settled. Rolling onto his side, he buried his face in a pillow and breathed in, then sat up on his elbow abruptly when he realized he wasn’t in his bed.
The night before came back to him in small bursting memories of touch, of feel. Of searing kisses and of Fredric’s body beneath him. He went hot all over, and his half-hard dick suddenly swelled as he remembered everything. Even the smallest, most minor detail was imbedded under his skin. The way Fredric had gasped and the way he clung. The way his head tipped back on a sharp cry, the way his cock swelled alongside Ilan’s. The way it felt to stroke him until he spilled between them and how fast that dragged Ilan over the edge with him.
His hand stretched out beside him, but the sheets were cold and the pillow had reformed—if Fredric had stayed at all. Ilan felt a short wave of panic, but nothing about the night before made him think Fredric had run. He’d cleaned them up after Fredric dragged a promise out of him to stay. Fredric had come alive under Ilan’s attention, though the sensuality settled into something more like a needy comfort. Fredric kept him close as they settled under the comforter, kept his face pressed to Ilan’s shoulder, mouth close for pressing his lips to bare skin.
Ilan had let himself feel—for the first time ever with a partner, the space around his heart was open, and Fredric wrapped around it like he’d always belonged. He flopped down and let out a groan, resenting anyone who ever made him feel like simple was easy.
Because it wasn’t. Loving Fredric was simple—it was like finding out he was the unknowable answer to the question he’d been asking all of his life. But it came with so much heaviness and responsibility. He would have to rearrange the way he treated every situation—and even though he wanted to, he wasn’t quite sure he was strong enough.
Doubt gripped him, and he wondered for a moment if he should just sneak out instead of going to find Fredric. But before the idea could even begin to take root, the door opened. Sebastian trotted in first with his dark wet nose and Golden Retriever smile. He laid his chin on the edge of the bed, and Ilan dragged fingers through his fur.
His heartbeat was calming when Fredric stepped through the door, and any moment of doubt faded into nothing as he saw the older man’s cautious smile and the tray he was holding between both hands. “Sounds like you’re up,” he said, moving into the room.
Ilan sat up and shuffled over as Fredric found the edge of his bed with his foot, then gently set the tray down at the edge. “Did you cook?”
“I made an attempt,” Fredric said primly, feeling the open space in front of him before turning to sit, “at what you taught me.”
Ilan peered over, and his heart swelled so big he swore he could feel it touching his ribs. Two bowls of shakshuka—a red mess with poached eggs covered in fresh coriander—and a plate of toasted bread between them. “You…” he started, but no other words came.
Fredric’s fingers danced across the empty sheets until the closed over Ilan’s wrist, and then warm lips pressed a soft kiss to the heel of his palm, then to the pad of his thumb. “You taught me to make this for the morning after.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be for me,” Ilan confessed, his voice a little rough.
Fredric let out a laugh and carefully pulled himself up on the bed fully, without disturbing the tray. He leaned against Ilan’s shoulder and kept his hand tight against his own. “Dear heart,” he murmured, and Ilan’s chest tightened, “if it wasn’t going to be you, it probably wasn’t going to be anyone.”
“That’s not fair,” Ilan said, squeezing Fredric’s fingers. “Anyone would be fucking lucky to be here right now.”
“I don’t want just anyone,” Fredric told him, and then Ilan heard what he was really saying, and god—that was a lot. “Now, taste the food and tell me how badly I screwed up your poor mother’s recipe.”
The weight of the moment lifted with Ilan’s chuckle, then he reached past Fredric for the bowl and ripped off a crust of the bread. He used the sharper end to spear the yolk, which ran out in a gorgeous yellow pool, and he stirred