My dick pounded with my heartbeat. I wrapped my hand around it and gave it a quick, tight stroke against the flat of his belly. The thrill made me gasp into his hair.
He gasped with me and bucked his hips. His cock pushed tight against my ass, my balls, and I loosened up, let my legs slide as far apart as they could. He clutched at me harder, lowered his mouth to kiss my chest. I reached behind with my free hand and pulled the head of his cock upward to catch it tighter in the split of my ass, the better to work us both up. I stroked myself again, slow and tight, and he found my nipple with his tongue. This wrung a little moan out of me, and I looked down, catching a glimpse of my dick pressed next to his tattoo.
There was something blasphemously hot about that. I rocked my hips, still holding his cock tight against my ass.
"Jesusfuck," he said.
Speaking of blasphemy.
Normally when he pulled out that one, it shocked me a little. This time just the sound of the word fuck made me drip. I stroked my cock faster, and he licked my nipple, then sucked at it, tighter and harder, so I got faster and faster, grinding down on him and rolling my hips. I gasped. "Oh goddamn."
"Need more?"
"Uh-huh."
He dug his fingers into my ass on both sides and lifted. I went with it, sitting up on my knees, though I sure as hell missed his dick. He said, "Turn around."
I did, as fast as I could, and he nudged and pushed and pulled until we were arranged how he wanted, with me on all fours, hands propped up on the armrest, and him behind me. He traced the crease of my ass with hot fingertips, sending another spark-wave across my skin, then deep into me. I tried to get my knees farther apart but was in serious danger of slipping off the couch, especially with the way my legs were shaking.
I looked over my shoulder, watched him spit. When it hit my crack, I lifted up and bit back a moan, grabbed for my cock again. He licked all the way down until he got to my hole.
I arched my back; my dick pounded in my hand. "Oh fuck yeah." My voice went up at the end, and I bit down on my lower lip hard.
"You close?"
"So fucking close."
He licked some more, teasing until my ass was so wet it was dripping. He reached up and cupped my balls, rubbed the spit around with his thumb. My back bowed involuntarily, and I dug into the armrest with my fingernails.
His other hand started working on my asshole, at first just mimicking the motion of his tongue, but harder, which made me buck and moan again. So much electricity, so much sensation all through me that my fingers, toes, my dickhead tingled with it. Then he pushed up a little, inside, just one finger, and moved it back and forth, pressing into my taint and desperately near where I needed it.
"Mmm, fuck m—" I started to say, but I cut it off with a gasp when he added in another finger, stretching me out—and almost shorting me out. A static charge built in my middle and pushed to my hands before I knew what was happening. I bit my lip again, harder, wrestled it down quick.
He pushed up inside me, spit-slick and careful, and crooked both fingers just a little. That place inside me lit up, sent electricity racing through my blood. I slipped my knee off the couch and planted one foot on the floor to open up more as I rocked back on him. Lightning crackled behind my eyes even as I turned my head to look at him again.
He worked his fingers up and down, feeling his way, stroking my balls so they pulled up tight. His mouth was open, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and taking in my ass with so much abject appreciation, I almost came right then. The second I squeezed my cock and started my hand moving back and forth under the head, catching his rhythm from behind, it was like my entire body might explode into pieces. I swelled impossibly, rocked my hips, and arched my back, concentrating on him taking me from behind, trying to hold on to the moment.
But there was just no fucking way, with him working me from the inside out. When the mounting explosion was finally too much to hold, I pushed back on him, locked my elbow, and dug my nails into the couch, then shuddered and came with a hell of a satisfied moan that sounded a lot like, "Oh yeah, baby, fuck yeah."
I tried to catch most of the damage, but there were four or five really fucking good spasms to it, and my hand, even my belly was dripping by the end. His hand stilled on my balls, and the other rubbed what was left of his spit into my ass, bringing me down. He got up on his knees and kissed my back, between my shoulder blades, down my spine, into the small.
When I stopped shaking with the last major wave of perfect fucking pleasure, he pulled out and took me by the hips, fingers all sticky, and fitted himself into the curve of my ass. I rocked backward, rubbing off his fat cock in my wet crack and grinning over my shoulder at him, panting like a dog on a hot day.
"You're so good, Jamie." He palmed an ass cheek with that same hot-as-fuck appreciation. "Jesus Christ, you're so fucking good."
Which was funny, since he was the one who'd just taken all of sixty seconds to finger-fuck me into bliss. I ached a little, in that sweet way, where he'd been inside me, and goddamn that was sexy. I laughed breathlessly and turned on him, grabbed my underwear off the back of the couch to wipe my hand but left the mess on my stomach intact. When he fell back into the L of the couch, still wide-eyed and looking at me like I was some kind of rock star, I climbed into his lap again.
I'd tightened up while blowing my load, so I relaxed my legs, my ass, and sat down on him, rolling forward until his cock was trapped between me and his own lap. Now he could reach, and since he already knew goddamn well I wasn't shy about where his mouth had been, he kissed me open-mouthed.
I could almost think again. I smiled into his kiss, leaving my cock to deflate against his belly as I felt up his chest. "Really? You think I'm good?"
"Yeah. Fuck yeah."
I grinned and pulled back slightly, still breathing hard and wriggling to work a groan out of him. "Which part of me?"
"All of you." His hands went back to my ass. His eyes were veiled by thick, drooping lashes, sex-confused and hungry. Voice gentled further still by shortness of breath, he made a valiant attempt. "Your hands. Your mouth. Your—You have really pretty eyes."
I laughed, mostly because he was actually looking at my eyes when he said it and kissed him. "Good start."
"Your legs." He ran one hand down the length of my thigh, then back up. "Your ass."
"Mmm-hmm." I sat forward and retrieved his dick from between us. I kissed his mouth again, and this time when I pulled back, bit down carefully on his bottom lip. "Keep talking."
"Uhh—"
But the moment he opened his mouth, I traced his dickhead along my belly, right through a trail of still-warm cum. I rubbed it all over him with my thumb, into the hole, down the slit.
His head hit the cushion behind him. "I—Jesus…"
"Nope." I kissed him again, then sat back so he could watch, if he wanted, and built a slow, tight rhythm. I lingered under his dickhead, then squeezed in the middle where it was a little thicker, enjoying the hell out of it. My cock, still only halfway down, lay lazy next to his as I worked him. I angled so I could get my free hand underneath and cup his balls, just brushing my own on top. "Just Jamie."
Sure enough, he looked down. His grip on me tightened; his hips shifted again, like he'd fuck my hand. "Uh, I said ass, right?"
"Yep."
"Your stomach."
This being a new and satisfying answer, I went a little faster.
He gasped, one hand now clutching the cushion below his ass as if he was afraid of falling off the couch. "God, so good. I just—I want to…"
I grinned and kissed his open, pink mouth again. "What else?"
"Your cock."
I tightened my grip.
His back arched. His fingers dug into my ass hard. "Your—Oh God."
"Come on, baby. This is a beautiful cock." I felt him, hotter and fatter than he could sustain in my hand. I jerked faster, stroked his sac as it pulled up, suddenly super-tight. I whispered, "I want it, Kellan. I
fucking want it."
"Ah fuck." He reached up, locked one hand into the hair at the back of my head, and pulled me down for a kiss. I let him guide my lips to his, licked at the roof of his mouth. His cock spasmed in my hand, hot sex spraying across my belly. He moaned into my mouth and held me there for a long moment, ruffling my hair, curling his fingers against my scalp, almost like he was trying to soothe me or put me to sleep, playing with it. I held his cock until there was no more and its pounding was just the rush of his blood, the aftershock.
Then his other hand pulled my ass forward, and I took the hint and got my hands out from between us so our bellies met, slippery. We smiled into a new kiss, closemouthed so he could catch his breath. I put my arms around his neck and applied myself completely to it.
After the rise and fall of his chest had leveled out, he said, "Your ass. That's a really good part. Definitely."
"You already said that. Three times now."
"It's fucking evil to make me talk to you while you're, um, doing that."
I licked his lower lip, then bit down on it. "But I like it when you tell me how hot I am."
"I know." He ran his fingers through my hair again. "And I know I said ass three times. That's how hot it is."
"Well played, Kellan."
A few more seconds of making out, heartbeats regulating. And then Kellan laughed. "Fuck, we're a mess."
"That's how you know we're doing it right."
*~*~*
Massive Attack was Kellan's favorite of all my music. I was convincing him about plenty of it, just like he was convincing me of his beloved paddy rock, but that one had grabbed him first, if only because it's superior make-out music.
I turned it up the next morning after breakfast so he could hear in the shower, so I'm not sure how I heard the doorbell ring. I dried my hands on my track pants—I always cleaned up since he always cooked—and looked through the peephole, expecting the landlady or a neighbor or something.
Instead, it was the absolute last person I'd ever expect to show up unannounced: my mother.
My heart froze. There was no pretending, what with the dirty bass of "Atlas Air" thumping through the door at her. I turned down the volume to a more reasonable level, made sure I could still hear the shower running, and took a deep breath that did nothing to dispel the sensation of electricity vibrating through my skeleton.
I opened the door.
Mom, immaculately put together as ever, eyed my state of disarray and laughed. "Another late night, honey?"
"Uh, no. I mean, yeah. Kind of. What are you doing here?"
"I've been trying to call you since yesterday. I need you to come to lunch."
"I have a game this afternoon."
"It'll only take an hour. I thought I could come and meet your work friends after—I haven't seen you play in years."
"I can't, Mom. You—"
The shower shut off.
Mom looked over my shoulder.
"I can't," I repeated, this time more quietly. "I'm busy all day. You're not the only one who—"
"Hey, James." Kellan's voice echoed down the hall.
Mom raised her eyebrows. There was nothing suggestive, nothing accusatory in the expression. Just pure curiosity.
My heart was in my throat. I stepped backward, letting her inside. And looked up just in time to see Kellan step into the hallway, his lower half wrapped in a towel, his hair wet and fucked up, tattoos and long muscles and scrubbed-pink-ivory skin and dark eyes. Looking like a goddamn work of art.
Looking like my boyfriend.
"Where's that—" He stopped talking when he saw the look on my face. Peeked around the corner. And, naturally, met my mother's inquisitive eyes.
There I was, half-naked, with an extreme case of bed head, thanks to his thoroughness on the couch and between the sheets the night before. This was not how she should find out. And if she already suspected, this was not how it should be confirmed.
She deserved so, so much better from me.
Mechanically, I did the only thing I could. "Kellan, this is my mom, Andrea Monday. Mom, Kellan Shea."
Only the faintest suggestion of confusion in her eyes, Mom smiled. "Hello, Kellan."
He flushed. "Ms. Monday. I, um, sorry for the…"
Her smile grew. With more than enough grace for all three of us, she recovered. "I understand, dear. Nice to meet you."
"And you, ma'am." He disappeared down the hall with less grace but a good amount of speed.
She schooled her expression. "A new friend?"
I was torn. It would've been easy to tell her the truth right there and then. She knew. Though she'd erased all traces of it from her face, I felt it in her body language, saw it in her eyes.
Just like I knew she saw the truth in mine.
But it wasn't the time and place, and she deserved the full explanation. She'd deserved it for a decade, and I found myself staring down the black hole of years past, wishing I'd had the common sense to see that it'd come to this.
The awakened were liars by nature, liars by omission. It was how we survived. But we didn't lie to our own.
I shot her a significant look, one that promised the full story later. "We work together. He's the new head monkey at Humphries."
"He's very…young."
She didn't mean young. She might've meant handsome. Or wet. Or naked. But all possible options implied the same end result: There's a handsome, wet, naked young man in your apartment on a Saturday morning, Jamie.
I nodded, still holding her eyes, but said, "Yeah. Kind of a wunderkind."
"He comes over to shower?"
My breath hitched. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Kellan was still in the bedroom and stepped nearer, suddenly wishing I'd left the music on loud. "Something wrong with the water in his building, I guess. Look, we'll talk at lunch." This accompanied by another significant look. I expected fully that she'd recognize the lie; I expected she'd know it for a refusal to get into the truth with him there.
She squared her shoulders, an undeniable tension in the set of her jaw and straightness of her spine. "Margaret's meeting us."
My knees nearly gave out. "Not today."
"Just come to Mama Santa's. An hour, no more. After, we can—"
"I'll stop by. In half an hour."
She looked at me in this scary and unfamiliar way. Like she'd never seen me before. Then she said her good-byes and left me with a kiss on the cheek.
I closed the door behind her and leaned one forearm against it, then rested my forehead against that, sighing.
I deserved that. I deserved her questions, her unwillingness to let it go for the sake of my convenience. I even deserved the inevitable anger and betrayal that'd be turned on me after I did my explanations and mea culpas that afternoon.
But goddamn, this sucked.
Light footsteps jerked me out of my unpleasant reverie, and I looked over my shoulder to see Kellan shoving his old T-shirt—which had spent the night on the cluttered coffee table—into his bag.
"Sorry about that," I said.
He dug his underwear out from behind a pile of magazines and stuffed it into the bag.
"She doesn't usually turn up like—"
When he turned, the force of his dark glare shut me up. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his right hand made a fist at his side. His voice was pitched sharp and hard, almost unrecognizable. "Problem with the water in my building? We work together?"
I leaned back against the door, knees going weak again, this time irretrievably. "No, it's not—I didn't mean—"
"Maybe I'm getting the definition of boyfriend wrong, but this is not what I meant."
The guy could throw a verbal kidney punch even when he wasn't aiming. That one, carefully placed as it was, knocked the air out of me. "That's…that's so not what that was a—"
"Oh, so it's not that I embarrass you." He strapped up his bag and threw it over his shoulder. I noticed belatedly that his T-shirt was slightly crooked, one edge of
it pulled up high enough to show skin, wet patches betraying the uncharacteristic haste with which he'd dried and dressed. "For a second I thought you didn't want your mom to know you're fucking tattooed white trash. My mistake."
"The hell? Christ, Kellan, where'd that come from?" But as soon as I said it, I realized exactly where it came from. I saw my mother through someone else's eyes: her shiny blonde hair, gray meticulously covered by sunny highlights, swept up in an elaborate twist at the back of her head. Her high forehead, her clever eyes, just the right touch of subtle makeup. Her simple but expensive designer slacks-and-blouse ensemble, her Tiffany pendant and diamond ring the size of a meteorite and Prada bag and shoes.
And Kellan, the poor kid in hand-me-downs, who I would've pretended didn't exist in high school, his heart written across his naked body in permanent ink for all to see.
He covered the distance between the living area and the front door in a few long strides and stood there like a boxer glaring down the opposing corner. "You tell me."
My head throbbed. It was stupid, all so stupid, just a misunderstanding. I had lied to her, but in a way that she'd be sure to understand. But how to explain that to him without it sounding like some miserable excuse? Jesus, why hadn't I just shuffled her out and apologized to him right away for the crappy introduction? Why hadn't I…?
Both his hands clenched then. I knew if I didn't say something, he'd push past me and be out the door. The first thing I could think of leaped out of my mouth. "It has nothing to do with you or—"
"Yeah, I see that."
"Oh, so if it was your mom, you would've just said, 'Yeah, meet my new boyfriend'?"
"That's exactly what I would've said."
"And she would've been okay with that?"
"Jamie, my mother is the most amazing human being I know. But whether she loves it or hates it doesn't alter a fact."
I ran a hand through my hair, pulling on it. All my clever explanations, my smooth excuses deserted me. I just stared at him and wished so, so hard that I could tell him the truth. "She's not ready to hear it so bluntly. I'm having lunch with her. I'll talk to her about it then, I swear."
"Right. She's not ready." Then he paused, mouth slightly open, as if having an epiphany.
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