by Brandon Witt
By the time I finally kicked the front door shut with my foot, it was nearing six o’clock. Traffic had fried my patience thoroughly. People who had apparently received their license in the mail today had managed to turn a thirty-minute drive into an hour plus. I dropped my keys in the bowl Jordan kept near the door and toed off my shoes. I was seriously debating sneaking a cigarette in the bathroom when the smell of garlic wafted by my nose. Ah, my siren song. I gave up the image of me crouched on a toilet lid, chain-smoking with a hand fan and a can of Glade, and headed for the kitchen.
He was on his phone, tucked between his shoulder and his ear, stirring something on the stove. He seemed to be doing more listening than talking, I noted with amusement, punctuated by his stock “I’m not paying you any attention” responses. Mmhmm, uh-huh, and yeah are some of his all-time favorites.
“Uh-huh,” he said, reaching for the pepper, and I had to grin.
I took a minute just to enjoy the sight of that damned fine man. He hadn’t changed yet from his work clothes, had just discarded the dress shirt to reveal the undershirt beneath. His feet were bare as he padded across the hardwood floor, and I thought maybe I could watch him like this endlessly. But then he turned, and my free peep show was over. He smiled, cheeks flushed from the steam. His finger went up in the universal “give me a second” gesture, and I waved him on.
“Yeah, I completely understand, Mom. Mmhmm.” He held the phone away. “How long have you been there?” he asked me in a whisper.
“Long enough.”
I pushed off the doorjamb and decided to make myself useful. “What can I do?”
“Salad?” he suggested. “No, not you,” he said into the phone, turning back to the stove. “I’m talking to Mackenzie. Just a friend, Ma, jeez.”
I washed my hands with Dawn, spurning the hand soap in the fancy glass jar. I wished it could wash away discontent as easily as grease. His “just a friend” comment had sent my blood pressure into the stratosphere, but I gritted my teeth and resolved to just make the damn salad. I poked around the kitchen, gathering ingredients in a bowl. I set the bowl on the cutting board and whisked the cutting board to the center island. A crisp head of lettuce and juicy ripe tomatoes joined a sharp knife from the knife block.
Was he supposed to just tell his mother before dinner that he was gay? No, can’t talk about you never having grandkids, Ma, I have to eat. These kinds of things take time. Chop. He already broke up with Rachel, didn’t he? Chop. Just because he won’t hold your hand in the grocery store doesn’t mean he’s changing his mind about you. Chop, chop, chop!
“Uhm, that’s probably enough, huh?”
I blinked at Jordan’s whisper, only to find myself before a mountain of lettuce. I had dispatched the whole head with serial killer efficiency. I smiled weakly and took out a Ziploc baggie from a side drawer. I guess I was less okay with this than I thought.
I bagged most of the lettuce, put a suitable amount in a bowl, and diced up a tomato to join it. Flicked my wrist and made the bowl jump to toss. I felt calmer as I rinsed off the knife—chopping was strangely soothing.
“No, I gotta go. I will. I will. Talk to you later. Love you too.” He tossed the phone down on the counter. “Gawd. That woman could talk the ears off a truck full of corn.”
“And you love her.”
He grunted, head still shaking at his mother’s remarkable talking ability.
“You’re a good son,” I teased.
“I do try.”
I gave him a kiss that was meant to be short. Followed by another that wasn’t. My tongue swept through his mouth and then settled in to play with his for a bit. I sighed into his mouth as his hands went for their all-time favorite place. I think someone, at some point, had put homing devices in his hands and calibrated them for my ass. I didn’t mind a bit. The microwave beeping made us part reluctantly.
Jordan cleared his throat. “I should, ah, check….” He waved vaguely behind him at any number of appliances. “Something.”
He turned back to his pot and gave it a vigorous stir, and I grinned. Good to know I wasn’t the only one. I checked the microwave, only to pull out a bowl of broccoli. I waved it under his nose with a raised eyebrow before sitting it on the counter. Far away.
“I don’t remember requesting this.”
He threatened me with a wooden spoon. “You’ll eat it and like it.” The next time I saw the wooden spoon, it had a coating of cream sauce on the end. “Here, taste this. Try to forget the sight of the wicked broccoli.”
He looked delicious. Fuck the sauce. But I took a taste obediently, and my eyes closed from the explosion of flavor on my tongue. I moaned, taking the spoon from his hand to lick more thoroughly.
“Good?”
The husky timbre of his voice made my eyes open slowly. So we were back to fuck the sauce. I maintained eye contact as I crowded his body against the sink, reaching around him to drop the spoon in the dishwater. I pressed against him and flicked my eyes down the length of his body.
“Good,” I confirmed in the tense quiet.
More than the sauce was good. This was good, and the fact that he might not recognize it was driving me a little crazy. When had he ever had this connection, this unique sense of right with someone? When everything just worked. The need to possess him pressed the impulse control center of my brain, and some part of me recognized it as foreign. Tried to reject it. I had never been against topping, enjoyed it sometimes, but I was a natural bottom. I loved that vulnerable feeling of physically taking him into that inner part of myself that no one else knew. I loved sharing that part of myself with Jordan. Wondered if he would ever offer me the same privilege.
I doubted it. Because while he had been remarkably free about doing all manners of taboo things to me, he hadn’t been quite as comfortable on the receiving end. During one blow job, my thumb had caressed his hole, and he’d been taut and tense as a vibrating wire. He had always taken the dominant role there, and for what? Because pitching wasn’t quite as gay as receiving? The thought of him holding back any part of himself from me was enough to make me almost angry. Desperate. A growl rumbled somewhere deep in my throat.
“I want to fuck you,” I gritted out. Then slid my hands to his ass to make sure he got the picture. Molded and stroked the muscled cheeks while pressed flush against the length of his front.
He looked at me. Just looked. Apprehensive. His cock, which normally would be thick and hard against me, seemed to be stalled at half-mast. I ground into him, and he made a small, needy sound. So he wasn’t entirely against the idea then.
“Are you good with that?” I asked.
I could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he wasn’t completely okay with it. But whatever he saw in my eyes made him say simply, “Okay.”
My feverish gaze dropped. I didn’t want him to be just “okay” with it. I knew trusting me to do this was a huge deal, but I already knew he trusted me. You don’t lay your head down every night next to someone you don’t trust. Now I wanted him to want me, want me to take him in this way. I wasn’t sure he did, and guilty feelings crowded my arousal. Was I just pressing his boundaries to prove a point?
My hands made short work of his belt and slacks, and they fell to his thighs with very little convincing. Silky boxers joined them soon enough, revealing his semihard state.
“You okay?”
His voice was a little thin. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Why indeed. The stove timer going off saved me from a response, and I pushed the cancel button. Slid the pot off the stove. The control knob of the burner made loud clicks in the silence as I turned it off.
When I looked back at Jordan, he hadn’t moved. His pants and boxers had gathered at his thighs, restricting his movement. His hands were braced behind him on the sink, gripping it like a lifeline, and my jaw clenched. I didn’t have the strength to change my course—every time I saw the beauty of Jordan’s perfectly sculpted body, my mind shortcircuited. Logic board�
�fried.
I helped him step out of both garments, touching every bit of skin on the way. Pushed his shirt up his firm, muscled torso and over his head. My fingers were drawn to his hardened nipples, and when I plucked at them, I heard his swift intake of breath.
“You’re so fucking responsive. I love that.” I couldn’t help the words that tumbled out of my mouth, even when they made him blush.
Long dark lashes swept down over his eyes. “Can’t seem to help it.”
He moaned when I licked at them, nipped them. Took them in my mouth as my hand worked down his stomach to take him in my grip. I stroked him, building up a rhythm that had him moving his hips frantically. The fingers of my other hand tightened on his hip, pressuring his legs apart. His rhythm broke, and his hand landed on my wrist. My eyes shot to his face, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were trained on my chest, and I took the momentary breather to calm my racing heart.
I wished I had it in me to give him a respite. But I didn’t have that kind of control. I needed to have him this way. Just not like this. I would make it good for him, and not just because his arousal always triggered my own. I loved him. I accepted this truth quietly as it rolled through my consciousness, and placed a hand on either side of his face. Kissed him softly.
I took his hand and led him to the bedroom. “Come with me.”
He followed willingly enough. “What about dinner?”
“Later. It’ll keep.”
I disposed of my clothes on the way, tossing them haphazardly. By the time we reached the bed, we were both naked. The mussed bedcovers made me snicker a little. It had been hard, but I’d finally broken him of his habit of making the bed in the mornings. As he’d ungraciously put it, making a bed was bloody difficult with someone still lounging in it. I gestured toward the bed, and Jordan gave me a pitiful look.
I gave him a push and watched, amused, as he toppled on the mattress, face forward. He landed in the pile of bedcovers with an audible ooof. I poked him in the side to get him to flip, but after a small quiver, he just lay there. I straddled him and tried to roll his body, but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up, laughing helplessly as his shoulders shook with mirth.
I took a moment to enjoy the sight of his lean, muscled form stretched out on the bed. Mine. From the tips of his silky black hair to the arches of his elegant feet. Mine. The thought came from nowhere, and my amusement fled. My hands trembled, tracing the rounded curves of his bottom. Mine.
I buried my face against the broad expanse of his back, rubbing my hands down his well-toned arms. Traced the Celtic tattoo. Licked the dark lines lovingly. A sigh floated up from his general direction as he let me explore all the hills and valleys of his body, the sweet line of his spine, the indent of his trim waist. The muscled masterpiece of his ass. My cock pulsed, hard and thick against his thigh. I had planned to just rim him a little and maybe use my finger, but, like most impromptu ideas, the plans had changed. I wanted in. I may have been a happy little bottom boy, but the sight and feel of Jordan’s ass against my cock was too heady to ignore.
The soft exploration had gentled him to me and relaxed his tense shoulders, the rigidity of his thighs dissipating like soft rain. His next action spoke stronger than words as he spread his legs and lifted up on his knees. There was a small tremor under his skin when I placed my hand on the small of his back and moved between his thighs. I sucked one of his balls into my mouth. His back arched, but he didn’t make a sound. I alternated between the two, sucking them and licking them until I thought I heard a whimper.
When I looked up, he was motionless, his face still buried in the pillows. But the sound of his harsh breathing was loud in my ears and was as good as a green light in my mind. I lowered my face to his tender crevice, seeking out his flushed hole. His unique scent, a little Irish Spring and sun and something strictly Jordan, filtered up through my nose. Made my nostrils flare. Mine.
My tongue plunging inside his tender region finally wrenched a groan from his throat. I lapped at him aggressively, unwilling to let up long enough for him to regain his equilibrium, and he pushed back against my tongue, increasing the depth of my penetration. Fucked himself with it as I slid one finger and then two under the smooth glide of my tongue. He gritted out my name. Moaned. Panted through some garbled sounds. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I understood the way he spread his legs wide. It was absolute, utter surrender, and I just stared at him for a minute, impaled on my two fingers. Trusting me to do what no one else had done. I snarled. What no one else would ever do.
A third finger went more smoothly than the first two as I readied him, sliding my fingers in and out of his scorching channel. When my fingers finally slipped out completely, he let out a bereft moan that had me smiling crookedly. It was a bit caveman-like and something I’d never admit aloud, but I liked taking care of him this way.
I rolled on the condom with shaking fingers and touched myself as little as possible with a quick stroke of lube. I didn’t know how much longer I could resist the pull down low in my stomach, that short, sucking pull that had me wanting to detonate all over his back. By the time I lined up my cock with his glistening hole, the tension was back.
“Relax,” I whispered.
His shoulders went slack as he tried to visibly do so, but when I tried to enter him, he was locked up tight. I refused to hurt him.
“J, you have to relax,” I said again.
“I’m trying,” he said, his voice a little annoyed. “You telling me to relax isn’t making it easier.”
I huffed a breath of laughter. “You getting pissy just makes me want to fuck you more.”
“Then do it.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, and right now, that’s exactly what I’d do.” I slipped my finger back into his hole, and he hissed. “I’m a lot bigger than that finger.”
“I can handle it,” he said, but his voice was small.
I was briefly undone. If I hadn’t loved him before, I did now. I was unbearably touched that this strong, accomplished man was willing to do this for me, just because I’d asked. Giving yourself to someone was a big deal. It made you intolerably exposed. Defenseless. I was momentarily tongue-tied, trying to express how much this meant to me, but then I gave up. It just wouldn’t be my style.
I smacked his left cheek. “Come on, J. You’re tighter than an old maid. I bet there are cobwebs in there.”
He collapsed in laughter. “I prefer hot young coed,” he said. “Virgin, cherry hole?”
But my ridiculous words relaxed him enough that I breached his tight ring of muscle as we both held our breath, then let it out as a slow hiss as I filled him, stretched him, all the way to the hilt.
God. I felt my eyes cross briefly as my cock adjusted to his heat. Then his inner walls rippled around me, and I swore. I had to move. Now.
“You good?” I gritted out.
“Feels… different.” He wriggled his ass experimentally, and I almost blacked out. “But good.”
I pulled out slowly, just leaving the head in. And then pushed back in deeper. Harder. Repeated it. Felt my hands shaking on his hips as I stroked in and out of his core. I gripped the shreds of my tattered control with steel claws until I found his spot. He snapped his hips back at me, and I was lost. I felt outside of myself as I pounded into him repeatedly, realizing somewhere in my foggy subconscious that this is not how you treat… what did he call it again? Oh yeah, virgin, cherry ass. But he seemed to be right there with me, meeting me thrust for thrust, making coarse, primitive noises. Or maybe that was me. Or both of us.
“Dammit, right there,” he panted.
“Touch yourself.” My voice sounded different. Rough. Demanding.
His hand disappeared underneath his body, and from the moan that followed, I knew he was doing as he was told. I anchored one hand in his silky dark hair to pull his head back roughly and hurtled us both toward the finish. My back arched as I felt the orgasm building, my balls tingling, and I hoped he was
close. And then he was coming, shooting on the bedsheets and tightening around me like a velvet fist. The orgasm ripped through my body like a hurricane as I jerked against him, crying out, letting it lift me up and scatter me to parts unknown.
I collapsed on top of him, unable to even lift my head. My eyes finally cracked open to the sight of our joined hands. At some point, we had locked our fingers together, joined our hands as we spent our passion in and on each other. Probably initiated by me. I winced as I pulled my hand out of his. Way to keep sex light and breezy, Mac.
To be fair, he didn’t seem to mind. As he folded his arms underneath his head and pillowed his head there, he seemed rather peaceful, actually. Even with my dead weight on his back, my face buried in the crook of his neck.
“I should move,” I eventually acknowledged.
“You’re fine,” he croaked.
But I wasn’t fine. I was more in love than ever before. I was just lucky I hadn’t blabbed yet. The thought gave me the strength to move, and I levered myself off him. Disposed of the condom. Used the bathroom and cleaned myself up. Brought him a warm, damp washcloth. When I returned, he was still lying there, splayed on his front with his ass up in the air. My cock jerked, and I looked down at it disbelievingly. Calm the fuck down before you fall off, I scolded it. I’m not twenty-five anymore, and neither are you.
“Here.”
He opened one eye to find the rag dripping two inches from his face. He looked at my face and cocked his head, like he always did when he was puzzling something out.
I offered the towel again. “It’s dripping.”
He plucked it from my fingers, and I turned away. I could hear him getting up as I picked through the various items of my clothing we’d left on the floor. I pulled on my jeans.
“You feel like dinner now?” I asked.
“Sure.” By the time I turned around, he was wearing my boxers. I flushed, remembering I’d divested him of his in the kitchen. He was still looking at me curiously. “You okay?”