by Anyta Sunday
He made his way back to his place, stumbling as he got out of his pickup.
Though he caught himself on the door, it felt as if he was still falling.
He’d often wondered what the fall toward rock bottom felt like. The fear whipping through him faster and faster as he neared the inevitable hard surface, his heart pounding so hard it would literally crack, that stretched out moment when he relived all his decisions. “What ifs” taunting in the whistling wind; the last words he’d hear . . .
Instead, he was numb. Like his senses had been switched to automatic mode. He doubted he’d feel the rock at all. Though that painlessness would come at the price. He’d be too broken to climb out; the bottom would be his prison.
His free-fall continued as he moved up the path, unlocked his door and—
Newspaper and masking tape lined the skirting of the hall.
The paper fluttered slightly in a light breeze and Rory’s warm scent came with it.
He felt like he was suspended in mid-air, as if rope or strong arms held him firmly around the waist. Eric swallowed, taking off his shoes with trembling fingers. The corner of a page of newspaper scraped over his knuckles and a zap shot through him as if it’d been Rory himself.
He wondered why he couldn’t hear Rory and for a second, he was falling again. But when he found him the world around him spun. Faster and faster he was pulled, tugged, hauled back to life. His senses switched back on and everything became so achingly clear.
Beautiful and painful at once.
Rory was in Eric’s bed, curled around his pillow, the burgundy duvet gently rising and falling with each sleeping breath Rory took.
He wished he were the artist right then, so he could capture the serenity and rightness in the scene and keep the moment forever. The smudged plaster walls, the violet haze in the room from shadows slowly lifting, the large bed twisted with sheets, and Rory, sleeping so softly it made the room look like it was made to cushion him.
Hand bracketed on the opened door, he shifted his weight, then dropped his arm. As if Rory sensed him, he twisted onto his back, a soft puff of air parting his lips.
And that . . .
That was the moment he broke.
Vaguely aware of the bed dipping, Rory stretched. It took him a moment to realize that dipping meant someone was next to him. But surely that wasn’t the case. Eric was at work, wasn’t he? Unless, oh fuck, had he slept all day? He’d only meant to take a power nap.
Soft air puffed against his ear, and Rory blinked with the shiver that ran through him.
Eric lay on his side next to him, head propped on an elbow, studying him. His green eyes blazed with something that had goosebumps licking every inch of Rory’s skin.
They stared at each other, not speaking, not needing to.
Then Rory breathed in Eric’s expelled breath, lifted his head, and touched their lips together. He felt Eric’s lips curve into a smile, and then he was kissing him back, slow and sweet; a good morning, an I’m happy you’re here, a please stay.
Rory hummed his yes, and Eric’s tongue slid into his mouth, deepening their kiss; a let me touch you.
In answer, Rory wrapped his arms around Eric’s neck, pulling him closer.
Never releasing his lips, Eric pulled back the duvet, hooked a foot around it and kicked it to the floor. Slowly, he lowered his solid but lean body on top of him, his arousal pressing down on his own, hard even through their clothes.
Rory’s breath hitched for a moment. This was new territory for him. He was at once excited and anxious. And then Eric lifted from his kiss and ran his fingers down the side of Rory’s face so tenderly, his gaze asking if this was okay. His anxiety melted, replacing itself with a fiery need to get closer. To have Eric so fucking tight against him.
He arched up into Eric letting him know exactly how he felt, and Eric let out a moan and threw his head down into the nook between Rory’s neck and shoulder. Hot breath, followed by a tantalizing series of kisses to his ear had all his blood draining south.
Eric’s firm hand crept down his side, finding the hem of his t-shirt. Then warm, rough fingers skidded over his skin all the way to his armpit. Eric gave a few light tugs of his hair there and Rory practically sobbed in air it felt so good.
It crossed Rory’s mind, fleetingly, how he could ever have held back from being this close to a man. But then it hadn’t felt at all good at the gay club, had it? Maybe it didn’t always feel so amazing.
Maybe it was just Eric.
Rory sought for Eric’s lips and molded them to his own, then with a languid swipe, he used his tongue to open Eric’s mouth. Their tongues twisting together sent more delicious shivers to his core and he sighed.
But God, he’d been waiting so long for this.
He pushed against Eric’s chest with his own, using his arms to prop himself and Eric up. Eric’s legs slid to either side of him. Rory gripped the curve of Eric’s arse as they repositioned, so they were sitting, Eric straddling his legs.
Rory dragged his fumbling fingers to the hem of Eric’s shirt. Eric kissed him and lifted his arms. When the t-shirt was off and thrown into a heap on the floor, Rory looked hesitantly into Eric’s eyes. As if reading his uncertainty, Eric took Rory’s hand and placed it on his chest.
Blood drummed in him as he explored Eric’s chest. It was smooth for the most part with a few minor nicks from skin that’d been broken and healed. As he ran his fingers over Eric’s tattoos one by one, he imagined he had a pencil in his hand, and he tried to memorize the feel of their shape so later he could re-create the moment on paper.
Eric shut his eyes as Rory’s fingers roamed over and over the ink.
And then touching wasn’t enough.
He had to taste them. Shuffling down, he dipped his head to Eric’s shoulder and started with the hook. When his tongue slid over it, Eric shuddered and wrapped his arms around him. He sucked on the tattoo at the edge of his shoulder. Eric tasted of citrusy shower gel and a tinge of something else only him. Rory wanted more, wanted to taste every part of him, wanted to feel every part of him, wanted to hear—
Oh there is was. A deep, delicious, needy groan. Because of him.
Suddenly hands were at his side, insistently pulling at his t-shirt. Whoosh. It landed next to Eric’s.
A hand sunk into his hair and pulled, urging Rory back down to the pillow. Rory bucked into Eric when their erections brushed. His cock was straining so hard against the material, and he wished he’d taken his pants off before climbing into Eric’s bed.
As if feeling his need, Eric slipped his fingers down to the top of his pants and fished between them. Almost whimpering as he did, he snapped open his buttons. Then, hand so close to his need, Eric paused and looked at him. The unspoken question had Rory’s insides turning to thrilling, electrical mush. He shifted Eric’s hand, placing it on him.
A guttural sound escaped Eric at that, and his eyes lit with yearning.
Oh fuck yes, but that sound made him want everything and at once. Rory pressed Eric’s hand even tighter against him, thrusting lightly, loving the heat of Eric’s hand on him.
His desire spun, getting whipped up into a current. He moved his hand to fumble for Eric’s zipper. It was a small relief to hear the ziiip and a bigger one to feel the weight of Eric’s cock pressed into his hand.
Too quickly it slid away from him as Eric shifted off him. Rory looked up, confused, but then Eric was pulling off both their pants, freeing both their erections. The rest of their clothes landed with the others, and they were naked.
Eric sat back on his heels, not touching him physically, but the way his gaze rolled over him, Rory felt like every inch of him was being caressed. He gripped the sheets at his sides, both hot and cold under the intense stare. Did Eric like what he saw? Or did he lose his appeal naked, what with his average size and left-leaning-ness?
He wanted to shut his eyes and beg then. Beg Eric to like him, to stroke him, to take care of him. Instead, he swallow
ed, and after a sweeping glance over Eric’s thick length, met his gaze.
Eric reached out and picked up Rory’s foot, moving it onto his thighs. Rory’s knees bent and fell to the side and he bit his lip and scrunched more of the sheets as he exposed himself further.
He’d never felt so fucking vulnerable. A part of him was ready to cry.
And then Eric brushed his lips over his toes.
Looking at Rory, he smiled, and lightly ran his hands down his leg to the edge of his crotch. Moving to the other leg, Eric repeated the action; soft fingertips scraping over his hairs. The prickling made him throb. Oh God, he could come just like this.
Eric reached his upper thigh, crouched between Rory’s spread legs. His hand lingered at the seam of his groin and then he bypassed it, sliding his hand onto the mattress and pulling himself up to look down on him. And when Eric lowered his head to kiss him, Rory felt Eric’s: you’re beautiful.
Rory gripped his arms and kissed him for everything he was worth. Their lips smacked and their pants sounded loud in the room, making the moment that much rawer. Honest.
Eric’s mouth moved over his jaw, his chest. He swung a leg over one of Rory’s as he moved down, and the tip of his cock teased a line down Rory’s thigh, moist with pre-cum. Knowing Eric was leaking had Rory latching a hand to himself.
A low rumbling came from Eric, a soft laugh, perhaps, and gently Rory’s fingers were pried away. They were replaced with the hot, wet suction of Eric’s mouth. Rory gasped, body arching, seeking more of it. The texture of lips . . . wet tongue sliding over the slit at the head . . . hand gripping shaft . . . Eric’s concave cheeks . . . sucking—
Eric’s hand lifted off him to take care of himself, and a moan, vibrating against his head, almost sent Rory over the edge. As if sensing how close he was, Eric lifted his mouth off him.
He wanted it back on, but then one look at Eric, lips parted as he stroked himself, and watching was enough. Eric’s half-lidded gaze met his and he stopped touching himself to crawl over him. Eric’s cock slid up his thigh to rest against his balls as he leaned over to kiss him. He rubbed slightly, teasing so close to his hole Rory gulped.
Eric must have felt the nervous gulp, because he pulled back from kissing to look at him. No, don’t stop! he wanted to say but couldn’t. Rory lifted himself up, kissed Eric again, and then awkwardly started twisting onto his stomach to give him access.
A firm hand gripped his hip, pulling him back to where he was. Eric shook his head and lowered himself gently on top of him. Softly spoken words hit his ear. “Like this. Together.”
And Eric took both of them in his hand and squeezed.
Rory pressed his forehead against Eric’s shoulder, smothering a curse, as Eric nibbled his ear and stroked them. After a minute Eric let go, moving so he had one arm either side of him. He thrust back and forth and Rory arched into it, pushing himself into the rhythm.
Eric threw his head up as their movements turned from languid and passionate to something more carnal and needy. And Rory loved every second of it, empowered by what responses he could trigger from Eric. Blown away at what Eric could do to him.
They were locked onto each other, and Rory still needed him closer. He wrapped his arms around his waist, and Eric moved right into him, feeling harder, leaner, warmer than he’d ever felt before. Their kiss was filled with energy, and Rory made a desperate sound deep in his throat.
He hooked his legs around Eric’s waist, tightening their hips together. Eric slowed down his rocking and moved enough to look at him. A shiver sliced through Rory at the tenderness he saw. Brushing his nose against his, Eric spoke, “I want you, Rory.”
The words sent him over the edge. Rory let out a sharp gasp. Being wanted, needed, made him feel safe and any hint of inhibition fled him. He slammed into Eric, seizing him tight as he let go. Eric cried out at the same time, and they both came, their come twisting and mingling on Rory’s stomach.
Eric collapsed into it, breathing hard into Rory’s neck with the aftershocks rippling through them. There was a murmur of something he couldn’t hear. Eric, still on top of him, lifted his head. There was a moment of silence as they each took in what they’d done. Then Eric grazed his lips over Rory’s jaw and lifted his weight off him. He slid off the bed and left the room, footsteps heading toward the bathroom.
Without Eric on him, Rory felt light again, but it was coupled with a sense of loss. Too much air around his body made him shiver. He could still feel every breath, every finger, every trail of Eric’s tongue over him.
Eric came back with a cloth in his hands, looking flushed, hair disheveled, sweat sheening down his chest . . . He darted his gaze away from him.
Suddenly aware of his nakedness, and feeling embarrassed, Rory shuffled into a sitting position, come sliding down his stomach. He wished he could pull up the duvet, but it’d long ago hit the floor. He grabbed a pillow instead.
Eric frowned. “What are you doing?” He crawled onto the bed and pried the pillow away from his crotch. “You don’t need to hide. I don’t want you to.”
Warm, damp cloth touched his stomach and Eric was gently wiping him clean. “Are you okay?” Eric asked. “You haven’t said anything.”
Up this close, Rory could see how red Eric’s cheeks and neck were from his stubble. He wanted to kiss over it gently. Instead he dropped his gaze to the cloth on him. “Um . . . thank you.”
Eric pulled the cloth away from him, nodding toward his thighs. “If, I mean . . . I really liked being with you like that. But if you—”
Rory cut him off, reaching out and yanking him into a hard kiss. “I want you too.”
Eric dropped the cloth, hands clutching Rory’s shoulder.
He breathed out slowly. “I wasn’t expecting this when I came in here, I was just—last night I didn’t want to leave. You were upset about Yowler, and . . . I couldn’t sleep. Not that I do much anyway, but I wished I’d had the guts to stay here.”
“Well, you’re here now. And I hope you have the guts to stay the rest of the day with me.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. He wanted to stay with Eric, but he also felt tingly with uncertainty. How would they act? What would they do? Wouldn’t it be uncomfortable?
After being so exposed and vulnerable, it was a kneejerk reaction to want to hide himself away until the intensity of the moment subsided.
But fuck if he was going to wimp out again.
He held his chin steady. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Eric kept peeking across the bed as they dressed. After the fourth time, Rory frowned. “What?”
A smirk lit up Eric’s face. “Acorn? Abercrombie? Asteroid? Abracadabra—”
“Are you out of your mind? Maybe I should just tell you.” He yanked his t-shirt over his head. “It would save me from the pain of your guesses.”
Eric crawled over the bed and kneeled at the edge in front of him. “We’ve established this already: you love my guesses. But tell me anyway.”
Rory looked at him and rolled his eyes. Instead of answering, he nipped a kiss on Eric’s lips. “Since I’m hanging around all day, I get to choose what we do.”
Eric raised a brow.
“So I hope you’re okay with getting paint on your shirt . . .”
Chapter Sixteen
Of course, Eric knew the questions game he and Rory played wasn’t really a game at all.
No. It was a paper-thin disguise to get to know more about each other. And it was also about making sure Rory wouldn’t suddenly bail on him, freaked out over what lines they’d crossed together this morning.
Their feet shuffled and scrunched over the plastic they’d laid out. They worked back-to-back for the last hour, each coloring opposite walls, and peeking at the other when they thought they could get away with it.
They didn’t get away with it a lot.
Rory plunged his roller into the paint tray, wiping the sweat off his brow with his other arm. Flecks of paint that’d landed on him w
ere smudged into a streak across his forehead.
Eric’s roller churr-churred up and down the hall wall.
They’d asked the simple questions like how long Rory’d had a bike. (Two years). And if Eric had ever ridden on one. (Once). Then silly questions like what they’d rather be: smart and ugly or dumb and beautiful. (Both of them chose the former—though admittedly, after quite a hesitation.) But slowly the questions and answers were becoming more intimate.
Eric glanced at Rory. There was a trail of sweat beginning to show through his t-shirt between his shoulder blades. He wanted to move to him, lightly kiss that warm crook of his neck and pull off the shirt . . .
“What?” Rory said, catching him. “Have another question, do you?”
Actually, he had thought of one. “If you could have dinner with any three people dead or alive, who’d they be?”
Rory looked back at the wall he was working on. He ran his roller up and down a few times before answering. “Myself when I was twelve, so I could tell him how to avoid the mistakes I’ve made. To tell him how to save his best friend. To tell him being a fag is who he is and he should just accept it. Yeah, I’d save him from that pain. And I’d also tell him that his dad was a fucker that would leave his wife in a couple of years, move to Australia and not contact his son more than once a year—usually via postcard.”
Rory dropped his roller into the paint tray and rested on the handle, looking at him. “I just wanted to get that depressing shit out of the way. It was bound to come up. Now we don’t have to talk about it again.”
Eric had stopped painting. He dropped his roller next to Rory’s, standing a foot from the guy. “We can talk about it, though.”
Rory shook his head. “Nah. I mean, I don’t care about him enough.” He nudged his roller against Eric’s. “I would invite my mum before she met the guy though.” He paused, thinking it through. “Actually, just after she conceived me, and I’d tell her she’d be better off without him.” Moving around Eric, he covered his roller and went back to his wall. “And that her son would love her forever if she took him to Disneyland when he was eight. And the third person . . .”