by Daryl Banner
I smile and go for another kiss.
Alan stops me. “Promise me you’ll stay open. Promise me you won’t let this city beat you down, no matter how hard things get. And …” He takes a deep breath. “And I gotta confess something.”
“Me, too,” I tell him, then bring my lips to his ear and whisper, “I want to do so many things with you on that excessively big king-size bed of yours, right now.”
12
Alan’s body stiffens up against me.
I give his ear a nip with my teeth.
He sighs with delight, then slides his hands up my body and takes hold of me. “Connor …”
I bring my lips to his, kissing him deeply.
Suddenly our feet carry us back into his room, putting the scary balcony and the skyline behind us. In a clumsy dance of shoes being kicked off and many fingers grappling for the buttons of pants or shirts, we drop onto Alan’s bed and make out like a pair of possessed animals.
I claw at his shirt, raking it over his head, and maul his face with my lips, holding myself over his body with my hands pressed to the firm bed. I feel his eager fingers slip into my underwear, and he finds what he was looking for.
I moan under his touch, pleasure rushing over my body like ocean waves crashing. “Yes, yes, yes,” I encourage him, practically pleading. “Like that, yes.”
He strokes me as he grabs the back of my head with his hand, pulling my face against his.
My fingers play down the sculpted shape of his slender, firm, toned form. I love how my fingertips practically bounce down his hundred-crunches-a-day abs, then hook as naturally as anything into the waistband of his boxers.
I give them a tug, and our cocks press together.
It’s anguish to let go of his lips, but I’m quickly rewarded by placing a path of kisses down his firm, chiseled form and through his happy trail.
My mouth wraps tightly around his cock, and then I descend without warning down every inch of him to the base. Alan sighs with pleasure—as if I wasn’t rewarded enough. He tastes perfect and clean, and the throbbing of his cock against my tongue simply emboldens me to suck harder and faster.
I love when he slides his fingers into my hair, then grips the back of my head with command, guiding the blowjob I’m giving him—gently at first, then with mounting urgency and power.
A glimpse up his hard, cascading abs at his face reveals he’s watching me, which is such a turn on.
We haven’t had a conversation about this. This is as spontaneous as I have ever been in the sack. I don’t know if I’m supposed to top him, or if he wants to top me, or if it’s an anything-goes kind of situation. I’ve tried both, and I’m down for either. All I know is, if I don’t get off soon, and if one of us isn’t inside the other in the next hot minute …
Alan lets go of my head at once, then reaches for his nightstand drawer. He produces condoms and a tube of lube, just like that.
I lift off his dick for a second, surprised. “Are you reading my mind?”
“Roll this on my dick, lube it up, and sit on it.”
Not the most romantic words I’ve ever heard. But we’re so fucking horny, and that husky voice of his is so sexy, he could read the dictionary and I’d probably come. Also, it seems like he’s made the choice for the both of us that I’m the obvious bottom. Yeah, babe, maybe this time …
“Yes, sir,” I say back.
I tear open a condom package, roll it down the length of his dick, then pop open the lube and prep him right up. With what remains of the lube, I reach behind me and tease a finger at my hole. The cool sensation of the lube makes my eyes shut as I sigh, then bite my lip.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” says Alan from beneath me.
My body is crackling with energy, coursing to every tip of my fingers and toes, to even the hair follicles on my arms and exposed legs. Just the subtle teasing of my finger in my hole has me unapologetically rock hard and throbbing.
“I love watching you,” he breathes.
I keep biting my lip, then peer down at his sexy face, some of his messy hair glued to his forehead by sweat. “I kinda like being watched,” I say. “It’s hot. Like I got all the power, even if you’re the one shootin’ out the orders.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks, out of breath. “Shooting out orders? Sit on my dick.”
I grin. “Yes, sir,” I tease him, then position my body over his. When the tip finds my smooth hole, anticipation rushes through me. I’m extra sensitive today, likely because of how long it’s been, and I swear every inch of my body craves his dick inside me. It takes everything in me not to just press my ass down on him all at once.
But when I start to lower myself, and I feel him slowly sliding into me, I realize this is exactly what I wanted all along. The deeper he goes inside me, putting pressure on all the right areas, my dick swells to the point of explosion.
“Ride me,” he commands as he grips my hips, holding me in place.
I oblige, lost to the oblivion of how good this feels to have him inside me. I rock my hips, guided by his authoritative hands. The muscles in my thighs flex, contract, and release with every thrust.
With my hands freed, I grab hold of my own raging-hard dick and start to stroke.
“Look at me.”
My wild eyes lock onto his, piercing through the haze of my own rampant horniness.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, smirking as he suppresses a moan. “Mmm, yeah, that’s better. Connor …”
“Alan …” I say back, riding his cock faster.
There’s something beautiful and tragic about a first time with a guy like Alan. I want it to last for hours and hours. But the thrill of at last putting our bodies together is too much to restrain.
It isn’t much longer before I’m at the brink. “I’m gonna come all over your chest,” I say, and I don’t know if it’s a threat or a warning.
“Do it,” he orders me.
I lurch forward when I come, pressing a hand to the bed right by his head, bringing our faces so close together that he gets to watch every squirm of euphoric anguish on my face as I come.
I’m embarrassed to think of the noises I make as I pant and moan and whimper, emptying across his rippling abs. But from the look in Alan’s hard and hungry eyes, it’s all the right noises. And not long after I’ve finished, he bucks his hips, and I feel the inevitable throbbing of his dick as he reaches his own point of no return. His face contorts, his nose wrinkles up, and when he comes inside me, I press my ass down on him, riding out every last shot of ecstasy he’s got for me.
When we’re finished, I settle right there to catch my breath, still straddling him, his dick still inside me. Sweat trickles down my forehead, back, and chest. The lazy grin I wear mimics his own, and when we look at each other, we start to laugh with relief. “Wow,” he says four times in a row, his words barely hanging on a breath, his eyes drunk with his afterglow. “I haven’t felt that good since—”
“Ever,” I finish for him.
Then our laughter expires. We stare into each other’s eyes, a peaceful silence filling the room. The balcony door is still open, letting in a cool night wind from outside, as well as the distant noises of traffic and a faraway police siren.
“What are you thinking?” I ask him.
Alan tilts his head, looking dreamy. “I’m trying to picture what your body would look like, all wet, glistening under my rainfall showerhead.”
I smirk. “Why try to picture it when you can see for yourself?”
Alan grins.
A moment later finds us washing off together in his (sickeningly) enormous shower, standing under the biggest rainfall showerhead I’ve ever seen. Our hair flat against our heads, beaten down by the soft drumming of water over us, we hold each other’s bodies and make out. Already, our cocks are swelling once again between us, and it isn’t long before his hand is wrapped around mine, and my hand is wrapped around his. And under the soft rainfall, while never letting go of each ot
her’s lips, we come together once again.
It is, by far, one of the most intimate sexual experiences I have ever shared.
Cuddled up on his bed later, still naked, the air of his apartment and the still-opened balcony door drying us off, he says, “You have your internship in the morning.”
“I know. I should probably get going.”
“My place is on the right side of town,” he also points out. “It’s much closer to Wales Weekly than your spot all the way in Mayville.”
“True …”
“Why don’t you stay over? Just one night. I’ll get you up and make you a mean omelet before you go.” Alan turns around in my arms. He’s the little spoon. “How does that sound?”
“You mean eating an actual breakfast before I go in for yet one more unforgiving six-hour totally-unpaid shift?” I give him a careless shrug. “Sure.”
He puts a kiss on my lips. “Right answer.”
We cuddle back up, the issue of where I’ll sleep tonight resolved. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I hold him against my body, feeling our warmth swelling between us. He smells so clean, and he is such a gentleman.
How could I possibly have gotten so lucky?
“Was there something you wanted to confess to me?” I ask him suddenly, remembering. “When I was going in for another kiss on the balcony …? You said you wanted to confess something.”
Alan doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he half turns his head, gives me a lopsided smile, and says, “I just wanted to confess that I … haven’t felt this safe with someone for a long time.”
“That’s saying a lot about someone who pulled you out onto your own balcony and scared the shit out of you.”
He turns all the way around in my arms and kisses me with meaning. “You took me to a height tonight I never thought I was capable of.”
I smile, then give in to another session of bed-sheet wrestling, tangled legs, and reckless making out. I doubt either of us lovesick souls are getting a wink of sleep tonight.
13
My time with Alan last week sure does put a little pep in my step.
I’m literally humming to myself as I type away on my laptop in the workroom, legs crossed, while a few of the other interns glance my way, squinting suspiciously.
When we sit in on a meeting with some of the higher-ups of Wales Weekly (always sans the big man Mr. Wales himself for some reason, whom we have still not met face-to-face), I wear a smile and take notes with chipper enthusiasm. I doubt even a spiteful comment from Jay could ruin my day.
Of course, my private bubbliness is put to the test when we’re made to present short articles each of us wrote on subjects assigned to us by Brenda. We stand before the group in the workroom, and with a copy of our article layout projected on the wall behind us, we read the article out loud, then host a ten-minute (and hypothetically educational) feedback session with each other, Brenda, and two senior editors. Dave’s piece is on the homeless who “plague” the nearby park, which makes me wince, as I might have taken a more tactful and sensitive approach to exploring the subject. There is a piece on police brutality against minorities, a piece on a scandal involving health code violations in popular restaurants, a piece on abuse in nursing homes, and even a piece on overpriced condominiums.
My piece is on developing neighborhoods and the struggles they face. I cite the turnaround of a popularly “gay” part of town which used to be a dump. My own: Mayville. When I’m finished, I get a comment from Brenda about how she liked my use of language, but that I leaned too heavily on adjectives. “Don’t use so much flowery poetry. Get to the facts quicker. Let them speak and incite your readers to anger.” Bree gave my piece a muted compliment, which is more than she’s given anyone else’s, and for that, I’m appreciative.
Then Jay speaks up. “Facts or not, this piece does little to inspire sympathy—or anything—for a part of town I wouldn’t deign to live in.”
I shift uncomfortably.
No, I didn’t happen to mention in my piece—or to anyone in this room, for that matter—that I live in the aforementioned “gay” part of town.
“Be that as it may,” responds Brenda, “readers of this piece who do live there will find it inspiring.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Jay agrees lightly. “Mayville is known for many things. Drugs. Fornication in the open streets. Strippers and prostitutes.” Jay turns his needle eyes on me. “It leads one to wonder why an aspiring Wales Weekly intern would write such a piece with affinity and suspicious attention to detail. If I was a reader, I might even wonder if the author of such a piece condones such reputation-crippling conduct.” He narrows his eyes. “Or partakes.”
The two senior editors at the table glance at one another.
“Is that really the kind of content manager this place employs?” Jay quietly asks, like he’s suddenly cut me out of the discussion, consulting with the senior editors privately as if they’re his colleagues. “I’d expect more from such a reputation-conscious publication as Wales Weekly.”
“Thank you, Connor,” says Brenda, whose flat expression never reveals whose side she’s on.
After one brief glimpse at Bree, who is staring at her hands expressionlessly and offering nothing on her face, I gather up my presentation and return to my seat.
Jay presents dead last. His piece is about a few select celebrities who have influenced the city over the past ten years, aided in environmentally helpful events, and donated significantly to charities.
“Not a bad idea,” comments Brenda dryly. She shrugs at the senior editors. “A positive piece on local celebrities, kissing their asses? Sure does make Wales Weekly look good.”
The senior editors chuckle, nodding with their silent praise.
My eyes, of course, are only on one thing: the projection of his layout behind him. “I agree. It can do a lot of good, an article spun from that angle.”
The whole room seems to turn at the sound of my polite comment.
Even Jay looks unsettled. I doubt the last thing he was expecting from me was a compliment. “Of course it can do good,” says Jay snappily. “That’s all I intend to do for this publication: good.”
I smile and nod. “Of course.” My eyes flick to the projection once more. “But I’d suggest an edit.”
“An edit? Are you suggesting there’s an error?” He lets out a tiny snort of amusement. “Connor, this piece has had the eyes of no less than three keen editors that work directly under Mr. Wales.”
“Oh.” I give an innocent look at everyone else at the table. “Sorry, guys. I don’t mean to step on anyone’s toes. I really don’t.”
Brenda sighs. “What do you see, Connor? Just come out with it, already.”
“Sorry. It’s just that …” I point at the screen. “Deidra Matheson. Broadway’s newest star-on-the-rise.” I give a happy smile toward Dave, who sits next to me. “I saw her perform in Wicked. I swear, I had never wanted to be whisked away to Oz more than I did that magical night, which is hilarious for a boy from Kansas to say, I do realize. Deidra’s voice … is nothing short of dessert for the ears …”
“Your point?” Brenda cuts me off impatiently.
I fold my arms on the table. “The first time our upcoming goddess of Broadway is mentioned in Jay’s article, third paragraph from the top, her name is missing the second D. Instead of Deidra Matheson, it reads Deira Matheson.”
Every eye in the room zeroes in on the article projected against the wall.
Jay’s overwrought eyes included.
Something like a silent gasp in reverse passes through the room as the error becomes not only known, but blaring and obvious.
“I …” Jay isn’t sure how to react. “It was just a little bit of a …” He huffs, stares down at his notes, desperately seeking something to save him. “Deira. Okay, I see it. Fine. A typo, which could have been made by … by …” He licks his teeth and lifts his eyebrows. “Clearly, I just—”
“It’s just a sm
all error,” I point out, cutting him off—much to his visible chagrin. “The article is … really rather flawless otherwise.”
“Fine. It’s just one D,” clips Jay.
“Yes. And sometimes,” I respond back politely, “that’s all the difference there is between a star on the rise … and a nameless nobody.” I give him a look. “One big ol’ D.”
Jay breathes fire through his eyes.
Brenda wraps up our presentations just then, leaving with the senior editors to have a discussion. And after a very furious Jay stuffs away his papers and laptop in silence, our day comes to a fast end. I’m soon in the elevator once again heading down with no one but a strangely smug Bree at my side.
Halfway down, she says, “Hey, Connor?”
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
She lifts her hand for a high-five.
I grin with victory, then give her firm palm one hearty, cheery smack of my own.
14
Tonight, I can’t even be bothered by the lack of clothes my “uniform” at Aubergines requires. In just a pair of tight two-sizes-too-small shiny purple bootie shorts that come barely halfway down my thighs, plus a sparkly purple bowtie and shirtless otherwise, I pass out tray after tray of shots from the bar to tables of horny men. It’s a busy night. Despite my scanty attire, I’m pleasantly surprised by how respectful the clientele are. I don’t get so much as one uninvited smack on my ass or groping of any kind. Hell, I’m even granted a moment around ten o’clock to shoot Alan a selfie, seeking his approval, toward which he demands I wear my uniform for him next time I’m by his place.
And on top of that, I just got another twenty-dollar tip. I bite my lip, giddy, and stuff it away with the others. At this rate, I’ll be able to pay my rent in no time. What was I even sweating about?
Brett is going to be thrilled I’m his roommate.
Hell, have I even broken the news to him about my new job yet? Hmm, I wonder how things are going with him and that new guy at Pogo’s he finally got the nerve to introduce himself to. I’ll bet it’s going perfectly, just as perfectly as things are with my guy. When will Alan and I start calling each other boyfriend? Should I ask?