Steamy Dorm

by Kristine Robinson

  “Just for me?” There he is, again with the nonchalance. His tone completely makes me fall apart. “You just want to be a hole to please me, is that it?”

  I just nod. He opens the door quickly and pushes me inside. “Take all your clothes off and go lie on the bed like fucking is the only thing you’re good for.”

  I feel a little faint. “Yes, sir.”

  Mercifully, he doesn’t make me wait long. I’m only just done spreading myself out invitingly on the mattress, starting to worry about rolls of fat and wrinkles of skin and hairs in the wrong places, when he comes in.

  “Gorgeous,” he says, reassuring me. The best part is that I can tell he means it. As always, his tone of voice makes my toes curl and a blush crawl up my chest. He smiles at my obvious reaction. I blush a little more.

  “What do you want? Tell me.”

  “Please fuck me.” I say it unabashedly now, because I know he loves hearing me say dirty things just as much as I enjoy hearing him say them.

  “You’re going to have to be a little patient,” he says.

  I interrupt him with a groan, but a warning glance shuts me up.

  “Because I need to prepare you, first.”

  Somehow I feel the need to say: “Yes, sir,” again. Now I’m the one making him blush. The tables have turned: excellent.

  He’s already grabbed lube from the dresser drawer, and is now covering his fingers. But Quentin wouldn’t be Quentin if he didn’t make me beg, so he starts by very slowly circling my hole with a single fingertip. It’s maddeningly good for a few precious moments, but quickly becomes maddeningly insufficient. I want more. I need more. I need his cock.

  I arch my back and thrust my hips, trying with moaning and writhing to entice him into getting the fuck on with it. It doesn’t work. Instead, he places his free hand firmly on my hip to keep me in place. All of a sudden I can barely even shift my weight. He has such fucking strong hands, and they make me feel so small and fragile. It’s delicious.

  “Patience,” he’s murmuring the word against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, making me shiver with each warm breath. His fingers are still drawing maddening circles on my skin. I’m covered in goosebumps and making little noises in the back of my throat: I never knew I could be so incredibly sensitive to light touch. It’s incredible.

  “God, look at you. Just look at you. Listen to yourself, Josh.” I get the feeling that Quentin is talking to himself more than to me. My body is driving him to distraction, and it’s a damned good feeling.

  When finally, finally, his index finger sinks into me, I feel like I might just die from the amazing feeling. However, he quickly withdraws it, now circling my rim with two fingers.

  “You’re loving it, aren’t you? Imagine what my cock will feel like.”

  I do imagine it, and I moan. He was right: everything feels so much better when you really, truly want it first.

  What seems like an eternity later, with three fingers working themselves in and out of me at the slowest pace imaginable, he finally says: “I think you might be ready.”

  I sigh in relief.

  “Ready for my cock, I mean. You don’t get to come until I do.” There’s a warning in his voice somewhere. I think I may have melted into a puddle of arousal just then.

  Dear God. How the fuck did I manage to find the one person on earth who knows and shares all of my filthy fantasies?

  Then he’s pushing into me, and in spite of all that careful preparation he’s still very big, and it stretches me in the most delicious way, and I feel every inch of him as though he’s touching me everywhere at once, and quite out of nowhere I am absolutely sure I’m going to come. Now.

  “Please,” I’m surprised by the sound of my own voice, dripping with desperation. “Please hurry, I’m going to come.”

  He bites my neck hard enough to leave toothmarks, and it’s clearly an admonishment.

  “I’ll be done with you when I’m done and not a moment sooner.” He starts thrusting slowly, his body language clearly communicating that he’s planning to take his sweet time about it, yet hitting my prostate on every thrust.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep from begging. He feels so good inside me. His firm abdomen are rubbing against my own cock teasingly on every other thrust.

  “Beg me,” he says, and again I wonder whether perhaps this man can read my mind.

  “Please,” I whisper, still a little embarrassed.

  “Look me in the eye.”

  Helpless to resist, I look. His eyes are razor sharp.

  “Please what?”

  “Please sir, can I come?”

  “No.” He says it as though he barely cares, as though my pleasure is truly secondary to his own. I fear the hotness of that single word, and especially his tone when he says it, will tip me over the edge.

  He increases his pace, and although I am pleased to see his composure slip I’m also completely unable to fight the waves of pleasure overwhelming me now. I feel the muscles in his thighs tense, his thrusts go erratic and wild, and I manage, miraculously, to hold on until the last second, when he says: “Come for me, Josh.”

  I come, then, harder than I ever before have in my life. Every cell in my body explodes in pleasure and joy. I’ve never felt this way before, and as the spectacular climax starts to ebb I feel myself coming down from a high. I just want him to hold me close, now, and he does. I feel safe in his arms, and comfortable. He cards his fingers through my hair gently.

  Just before I doze off, I hear him whisper in my ear: “I love you so fucking much, Josh.”

  Chapter Nine

  In the morning I feel calm and safe. I’m vaguely aware that I’m not in my own bed, but I’m also fully aware that I’m with Quentin, and it makes everything a hundred times better.

  “I meant it, you know.” Quentin’s voice is soft, as though he’s afraid to wake me. I decide not to let him know I’m awake quite yet. “I love you,” he goes on. “I didn’t just say it because the sex was spectacular.”

  I can’t help grinning a little, but my face is hidden in the pillows. It’s only when he starts to extricate himself that I decide to reveal my wakefulness, clinging to his limbs like a lovesick idiot. He doesn’t mock my neediness. He laughs beautifully and cards his fingers through my hair. I think probably heaven is right here.

  “Let me make you breakfast?”

  Right on cue, my stomach growls. This time, when he tries to sit up, I let him.

  He comes back mercifully quickly with a tray laden with toast and scrambled eggs. I sit up and gratefully reach for the coffee he hands me.

  “So, I thought you should know. Before we left Tease last night, I gave Melissa my notice.”

  I need a sip of coffee to process that sentence. “Melissa?”

  “The manager. Tall, brown hair. You know who she is.”

  He’s right, I do. “You gave her your notice?”

  He smiles at me. “Two weeks.”

  “I love you.” The way I said it yesterday in the hallway already seems distant; I’ve learned to love him a thousand new ways since then. It must show on my face, because he grins widely.

  “What about money?” As it always does, reality infringes on my happy little bubble at the most inopportune moment.

  He shrugs. “We’ll make it work, somehow.”

  I eat my eggs and hope to God he’s right about that.

  “You didn’t have to, you know.” I said that too, yesterday, but I feel like it bears repeating.

  “I know,” he says. “I wanted to. What time do you need to be back in Milwaukee?”

  I sigh. It’s almost ten on a Thursday morning, I should already be back at the office. “Fuck Milwaukee. I’ll take the train tonight after dinner. Let’s go to the zoo again.”

  Chapter Ten

  It’s not unusual for Quentin and I to text each other throughout the day, but it’s unusual for us to phone each other. On Friday, sitting behind my desk still tired because I took the last tra
in back from Chicago last night, I resist the urge to do it anyway. As I sit mulling the call versus text dilemma over, Quentin solves it for me. Ping! There is a text alert.

  “I love you,” he’s written. I manage to send back a heart-emoji just as my boss calls me into his office. It’s probably about the Juniper Jeans account.

  “Come in, Josh.”

  Or maybe it isn’t. The manager is usually much more chipper.

  “Afternoon, sir. I wanted to apologize again for my absences last week. Food poisoning really is a menace.”

  “Yes, yes.” The manager nods, but something about his demeanor is off.

  “What is it, sir?” I feel apprehension as a leaden weight in my stomach.

  “You should know I’m very sorry this meeting is necessary, Josh.”

  No. No, this can’t be happening.

  “I hope you know how much we value your contribution to our company, especially lately with your great work on Juniper Jeans,”

  Nope. I can feel myself tuning out.

  “However, as you know, we employ a strict first-in-first-out policy here…”

  I can’t listen to any more of his apologies. “It’s okay, sir. You can’t do anything about the economy. I’ll have my desk cleared out by the end of the day.”

  The manager is obviously relieved. I feel sick and quickly make my way outside into the fresh air. As soon as I’m alone, I dial Quentin. Mercifully, he answer on the first ring. It’s about 3 PM, so he’s probably working on some designs. In a while he’ll shower and shave, then leave for Tease. Right now though, he’s there to answer the phone.

  “Hey sweets,” his voice is of immediate comfort to me.

  “I was just fired,” I say.

  It’s silent on the other side of the line for a number of seconds. Then: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. I’m sorry too. I liked this job.

  “You want to come over?” he offers. “I can take the night off. Or I could come to you?”

  Suddenly it feels like I can breathe again. “Would you come over?” To my immense mortification, tears are choking me up a bit. I’m desperately in need of comfort, and it means so much that Quentin is offering exactly that.

  “I’ll call Melissa right away, she can find a replacement. I’ll be there in an hour or two. Go home. Take a bath. I love you.”

  I swallow back my tears and whisper: “I love you, too.” Then I go back inside to clean out my desk.

  Chapter Eleven

  When the bell rings exactly two hours later, I’m up to my chin in a warm bath. I curse at having to get out, but I can’t help but smile when I see Quentin in the doorway. He’s wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, as though he knows I can’t resist guys in hoodies. Maybe he does. He gives my dripping hair and terrycloth robe an appraising look, then pulls me close by the collar and kisses me. It’s swift but warm, and I feel the worry seep out of me in tiny increments.

  Until I try yanking him closer by hooking my fingertips into the pouch of his hoodie. There’s a slip of paper there, worn thin like a receipt. I feel him tense, and on impulse I pull the scrap out. On it, there’s a scribbled phone number and the words: “Call me sometime, sweet cheeks.” The words are faded and the paper is torn, but the message is unmistakable.

  “What’s this?” By some sort of miracle, I manage to keep my voice steady.

  “I’m not sure.” He sounds genuine enough, but that doesn’t explain why his entire posture has gone tense at the appearance of the note.

  “You’re not sure? Because I’m pretty sure this is someone’s phone number.”

  He looks down at the phone number clenched between my fingers. “Looks like it.”

  I don’t like his casual tone. “Yes, it does. Should I be cool with that? Is that what you’re saying?”

  My voice has gone hard and loud and I try to dial it back, but for some reason I can’t. He’s too close to me. He’s too pretty.

  “We never discussed exclusivity.” I can see a hint of pain in his eyes, as though he’s aware that’s a shitty thing to say, but it’s too late. He’s already said it.

  “That’s true,” I let the anger be heard now. “We just said ‘I love you.’”

  “We did,” he acknowledges. “And I wasn’t lying.”

  Wasn’t. I’m tempted to slam the door in my face, but curiosity gets the best of me.

  “How did this note get there?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes people in the audience sneak backstage. I wore the hoodie to work last night.”

  I don’t like the casualness with which he says this, as though I shouldn’t care. As though I don’t have a right to. It’s true: we never did discuss exclusivity.

  I allow my voice to crack this time when I say: “I think you should go.” I shove him out gently, and then slam the door in his face not so gently. I start to cry.

  There’s one thing left to do tonight before I’ll allow myself to fall apart. I send my parents a text saying: “I was fired today. Congratulations.” Then I collapse on the couch.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spend the night there, slipping in and out of awareness. In the morning, awareness returns to me fully, and I realize I’ve eaten about a pint of ice cream and watched sixteen episodes of a sitcom I don’t know the name of. Charming. The pint of ice cream is making itself know in the most uncomfortable way, and I go in search of some Pepto-Bismol. The medicine cabinet has nothing but nose drops on offer. As though I haven’t had enough bad luck over the last twenty-four hours.

  I’m still in the terrycloth robe, but I decide to walk to the supermarket regardless. It’s not as though I have any dignity left to lose. As soon as I open my door, however, I am completely flabbergasted. Every inch of my mousy lawn is suddenly covered in flowers, except for a tiny area where Quentin is leaning against the shrubbery, still in last night’s casual clothes. His hair is disheveled from its close contact to so many leaves and he’s squinting against the bright sun. Under his fingernails are smudges of dirt, as though he’s been working tirelessly to plant all these flowers. I realize he probably has.

  “Where did you find a trillion hydrangeas in Milwaukee at that time of night?”

  He doesn’t answer my question, but he does unfold his legs from under him with some stiff moans and looks me right in the eye. Fuck, those eyes are the exact same color as the flowers. What a clever bastard.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was being an asshole. Can I come in? There’s something we need to talk about”

  I let him in. I even let him kiss me on the cheek. It leaves behind a smudge of dirt, but I don’t care.

  “Come,” I say. “You need a shower.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he repeats.

  “That’s okay,” I assure him. “Come here.”

  He follows me to the shower and drops his grimy clothes on the bathroom floor. I ditch the terrycloth robe on top of them, and follow him under the spray. Now he kisses me for real, and I almost start crying again: to think I could have lost him over something so stupid as a phone number scribbled on the back of a gas station receipt! The thought is ludicrous, but it’s quickly crowded out by thoughts of Quentin’s hands making their way down my waist and cupping my asscheeks. He lifts me off the floor, just like I’m as light as a feather.

  “No,” I’m surprised at my own protest, but he’s not. Carefully, he lowers me to the floor and takes a step back, leaving me under the full spray of the shower.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I need to earn back your trust. I just thought, when you followed me in here…”

  I can’t let him finish that sentence, so I cut it off with a kiss. After I pull back, I assure him:”It’s okay, sweetheart. I just want to take you in my mouth.”

  His eyes go wide and incredulous. I chuckle. It’s not as though we haven’t done that before. It’s just different now, more meaningful. I want to suck him to assure myself he’s really there, he’s really mine, and from the look on h
is face I can tell he understands.

  He offers me a hand to steady myself as I lower onto the slippery tile. It isn’t perfect; I would have preferred his warm, musky taste over the watered-down, soapy shower version, but it’s still amazing. He gently cards his fingers through my hair, directing my head this way and that to maximize his pleasure, and the weight of his cock is heavy and gorgeous in my mouth. My own erection is straining, but I keep my focus on him. That’s just the way our games work.