by Liora Blake
15
Under the bleak glow of the porch lamp, Simon is crouched on the stoop outside my front door with his arms crossed over his head, where it lies against his knees. When I shut off the car, his head lifts and he runs his fingers up through his messy hair. His tie is off, tucked in one of the suit pockets, and a few buttons are undone on his dress shirt. From the way his face looks sallow under the harsh light, to how his pretty suit is starting to wrinkle up everywhere, I want to take him inside and do anything he wants until the sexy, mouthy, goofy Simon I’ve learned to like so much comes back to me and makes everything Trevor said disappear.
Once I make my way up the walk, Simon stands up and puts his hands on my cheeks, holding me so that I meet his gaze. “Please don’t send me home.”
I shake my head and knit my brows together. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
As I unlock the door, Simon wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face in my hair. For a moment, I simply stand there and enjoy the weight of him against me, sturdy and sheltering. Silence surrounds us, so the click of my door unlocking as I turn the key seems deafening. In the darkness of my house, I reach behind me and take his hand to guide us down the hall, letting my bag and key chain fall to the floor as we walk.
Once we’re in my bedroom, I let his hand drop, moving across the room to turn on a bedside lamp. When I turn back to him, he’s next to the doorway with his body resting against the wall, and I can’t go to him, because he’s scratching the back of his head and as his eyes flutter closed, it’s like he can’t decide if he should be here or not.
When his eyes open and find me, I can see his throat move as he swallows.
“Tell me exactly what Trevor said after I left. Is he going to kill me? Or just fire me from the one gig I really love?”
Without giving me an opportunity to answer, he scrubs one hand down his face and stares at the floor. “I cannot believe how spectacularly I fucked up tonight. The idea that I started something with my friend’s sister and then proceeded to let him find us about two minutes away from screwing on his couch is monumentally stupid, even for me. I’m going to lose everything over this.”
This. Now I really can’t move, because that little word said too much. Maybe Trevor was right about my poor judgment, because it seems all Simon cares about is losing his job and his friend over “this.” “This” being me, and the way he said it means I’m not worth more than those other things. I’m just the fuck costing him the things that really matter. Because if this were more, if he felt one bit of what I’ve been trying to smother out, he wouldn’t make it sound like I was merely a shitty decision with even shittier consequences.
Finally, when his face turns upward, there is so much remorse written there that I want to cry and scream until I find enough anger to make this stop hurting. He sees it all the minute his eyes find mine and the remorse fades into a wrecked acknowledgment of what he just said to me.
“Oh, shit. No, I didn’t mean—”
“Save it.” I shove my hand forward, with the palm out, silencing him.
“Goddammit. I didn’t mean it like that.”
His body goes slack and he slumps to the floor, dropping his head into his hands. There is a jagged edge to his voice, the opposite of his defeated body language, making his words sound heated and hard.
“Don’t even think about trying to end this right now, Devon. My head hurts and I need you. I need us. All I meant was that I should have acted like a grown man. I should have told Trevor about us and been up-front about how I felt before it blew up like a bad science experiment tonight. So I wouldn’t look like an asshole, because looking like an asshole doesn’t bode well if I’m trying to start a life with the guy’s sister. And if I lose my job, my friend, and you over this, then yeah, that would be everything to me.”
Every twinge of doubt in my heart goes silent. In the moment he claims to want a life with me, I give up the rest of the fight because Simon is in a heap on the floor, broken, anxious, and sad. Trevor’s words, my fears, are all replaced by the desire to fix this. Bring Simon back to me and worry about the rest later.
All I have to do is the obvious stuff. Make him talk, make him come, make him smile. I’m not sure of the exact order I should do those things in, but if Simon’s anything, he’s simple, and if we start with those three things we can get this damn thing back on track.
“Get up, Simon.” If I let him wallow in a heap anymore, it will get worse. Gotta get the kid back on the horse.
His head snaps up. “What?”
“Get. Up.”
Narrowing his eyes, he stands and his hands clench at his sides. “Don’t do this, Devon.”
“You don’t even know what I’m doing.” Closing the gap between us, I plant myself in front of him and push his chest gently until his back rests against the wall. “Listen up. Don’t worry about Trevor. Not right now.”
His face goes slack and he nods. Whether it’s fatigue or desire, I don’t know, but when his eyes meet mine, I can see how badly he needs the release that comes with us being together.
“Now, do you want to talk about what else happened today that’s got you so messed up? Or do you just want me to make it better? Because I want my Simon back.”
His eyelids drop incrementally. “ ‘My Simon’?”
“You heard me.”
“Does that make you my Devon?”
I answer slowly, deliberately. “I don’t know, does it?”
If he doesn’t say yes, I’ll kill him. I will absolutely throttle him within an inch of his life, because he’s got me entirely crazed over him, and if he doesn’t claim me, I’ll go insane.
“You’ve been my Devon since the first second I met you. I just needed you to get on board with the fucking plan. You’re so stubborn, it took a shitload longer than I expected.”
An emotional sigh courses through me. Thank God. He doesn’t have to die tonight.
“Good. Now answer my question. Do you want to talk about whatever’s going on with you or not?”
He licks his lips and moves his gaze over my body. “Talk later. I need you to make it better, baby.” His voice drops a few octaves. “Make me forget every fucked-up thing that happened today.”
Slowly, I move my hands up to his shoulders and slip his suit jacket off, tossing it on the floor a few feet over. As my hands start to drift over the buttons on his vest, I can feel his body tensing with each one that slips through my fingers.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Simon. Once I get your vest and shirt off, I’m going to drop to my knees in front of you. When I finally put my mouth on you, you’re going to tell me exactly how you like it, what you want, and everything you need tonight. Got it?”
Instead of answering, Simon shoves my hands away and makes quick work of his vest, then moves to pull his shirt out of his pants. He stops for a moment and grabs me roughly with one hand behind my neck.
“Take your shirt off. That’s how I always pictured it. You, on your knees, and naked from the waist up so I can touch your tits while you suck me off.”
Even though there should be some pause on my part, something that makes me feel used by his words and demands, I do exactly what he says and slip my shirt off before slithering down his body with my hands tracing his legs, until my knees find the floor. Brushing my hair back from my face, he tips my chin up a bit, staring down at me with such need it makes my breath hitch. When he pulls his stiff length from his pants, he strokes a little, watching me while I wait. Using one hand to work himself over, Simon drops his other down and begins to play with my breast, tugging and pulling on the nipple until my mouth parts on a moan. In a whisper, he claims that’s exactly how he wants me, with my lips open just a little so he can brush the head of his cock over them. When he does, in the seconds after I let my tongue draw over the tip, something snaps inside me.
Suddenly I want him so much it threatens to drown me. I want to take him in my mouth and spend hours, days, weeks with
him between my lips, aching lockjaw be damned. Until now, I’ve usually landed on my knees because I thought it made me seem cooler, sexier, wilder. But I never wanted it like this.
With every stroke I take and every answering groan that comes from his mouth, my own cravings settle heavier in my body. When he says things, tells me to suck harder, tells me to relax and take more, asks me to trace just the tip of my tongue along the bottom of his shaft, nothing about his gravelly tone feels like a command. I know he’s doing what I asked. By telling me what he likes, and how he needs it, he’s teaching me how to make him mine.
As his fingers wrap tightly into my hair, he starts to tug me slightly deeper with every dip I take until he freezes and sucks in one sharp breath. The sounds as he comes are the mingling of groans, curse words, endearments. Every note is primal satisfaction mixed with raw relief and with his taste on my tongue, I feel it all like a stinging brand.
Finally, he sinks down to the floor with exhausted gratification radiating from his every breath. Right then, everything I just gave him, he gives back twofold by simply letting his hand find mine as we wrap our bodies together on the floor. Then, for the first time in years, without any concessions on who I am, it feels like I might belong with someone again.
Then I make him a sandwich. Trust me, the irony of the last hour doesn’t escape my notice. That I, Devon “Call My Own Shots” Jenkins, just gave a seriously heady round to a guy and followed by making him a sandwich while he lounges around in bed is a little ridiculous. If I start a load of his laundry before sunup, then we can be sure I drank the Kool-Aid and am dangerously close to putting on a frilly June Cleaver apron and asking him how he takes his evening martini.
He is lying there waiting for his sandwich, propped up on the pillows in my bed, looking almost a smidge too pleased with himself, when I walk in. The only thing that saves his ass is the sweet grin he throws my way and the fact he says “thank you” when I hand him the plate.
“Is this your bread?” He lifts the sandwich up and stops short of his first bite, letting his jaw hang open.
I nod my head and hold my breath, hoping he will like it and gush a bit. He does so appropriately, through a half-full mouth of sandwich, but I excuse the poor table manners.
“I really wouldn’t care if you couldn’t boil water, but this just adds to your awesomeness. Combined with the new knowledge that you also give spectacular head? Mind-blowing. Really.”
I roll my eyes but can’t be sure which sexist compliment I like better. Now, if he would just pay attention to the plate the sandwich is on, then I can give him one more thing before I snuggle his pretty body into my sheets and let him wrap his limbs around me.
But he keeps talking and talking, ignoring the damn plate. I shouldn’t be surprised; babbling is his thing. He asks me about my week, what I did while he was gone, and makes a few lewd jokes about missing me. Then, just before he goes to pop the last bite of the sandwich in his mouth, he stops and gestures to my dresser.
“Do you want me to hang that up for you in the morning?” He points at the framed photo of my back, which is exactly where I want it, propped on my dresser.
“No. I like it there.”
He shrugs his shoulders and doesn’t ask more, which is good, because I don’t particularly want to explain my reasoning. I like it there because it reminds me of the first time I saw it. Displayed the same way it was in his bedroom the night he put his hands over my eyes and then revealed it to me. In the days he was gone, I spent a few moments each day sitting on the edge of my bed, enjoying the image in the early morning light, the way it comes to life as the sun drifts in through my windows. At the very break of dawn, hazy shadows shroud it, but by midmorning it is fully alight, every spectrum of my body looking so alive I craved him there with me.
When he finishes chewing the last bite, he looks down at the cheap-looking dinner plate sitting in his lap and then holds it squarely in both hands. He lifts it up to inspect more closely, and the side of his mouth quirks up in a confused little grin when he recognizes it as a retro Star Wars plate with a picture of Chewbacca, R2-D2, and C-3PO imprinted on it. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I start to rock a little in pleased, goofy delight at his acknowledgement of it.
“Nice plate. If you disclose to me that you’re a closet Star Wars junkie, we’re going to Vegas and getting hitched tonight. Because that little tidbit of info would make you so perfect I’d have to lock this down, stat.”
“It’s for you.” He looks up, shaking his head slightly in confusion.
Raising my index finger to hold him off, I jump off the bed and scamper down the hallway to the kitchen. About halfway there, I force myself to walk like a normal person, because I realize I’m skipping. With the all grinning, scampering, and skipping, I need to get ahold of myself before it gets too out of control.
Sauntering back into the bedroom, I keep my hands obscured behind my back, holding the last two pieces out of view.
“I saw this in a vintage store down by Stacia’s studio. It was in the window and I thought it would go with those dorky Star Wars drinking glasses you have.”
Whipping one hand out, I thrust forward the matching mug with C-3PO on it.
“For your coffee.”
His face lights up in a smile that makes me want to do more of that scampering-and-skipping bullshit. Pulling my other hand around, I reveal the most important piece, a good-sized bowl with R2-D2 on it.
“For your cereal.”
Simon stares squarely at my two hands for a bit longer than seems necessary and his smile fades. A sudden embarrassment washes over me. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Dorkier than even Simon could understand. Then, before the feeling has a chance to grab on, he looks up through his eyelashes and lets one of his hands reach out to my body, where I stand wearing only his dress shirt. Starting at the back of my thigh, his hand begins tracing gently up my bare leg, stopping when he grips the top where it meets the curve of my ass. His long fingers nudge between my legs, and the whole thing feels wildly intimate. Between the placement of his hand and the look on his face, it’s obvious he’s trying to telling me something new: that from now on, only he touches me this way. No one else. His hand resting there, without it leading to more, is for us.
“Sunshine.” Low and breathy, he tips his head up to see me better. “You better be careful, you know that?”
I stare at his face but try to give nothing away. I only want him to say something that will make this all feel abundantly real, make it tangible. And the weight of wanting that and waiting for it is bearing down on me.
“Are you threatening me, Simon?” I whisper.
“Absolutely. If you keep taking care of me like this, you’ll never get rid of my ass. So be careful, because when you indulge my inner geek, it makes me want to fall in love with you.”
There it is, the intense sensation of a man saying he’s choosing you, and the profound panic of believing that he might be telling the truth. My hands start to quake the tiniest bit, but he saves me from it. He pulls the dishes from my hands and puts them on the bedside table along with the plate, then pats the mattress for me to crawl in next to him. The click of the lamp switch gives way to safe darkness, making it so I can breathe again.
We lay curled against each other in silence for a while, as if we’re both waiting for the other to freak out and ruin everything. When neither of us does, something in both our bodies seems to unravel. Then he tucks his feet up close to mine, nestling them together so that the tops of his feet are cradling the soles of mine. I can feel his chest rising against my back as one of his hands slips around my body so that he can cup my breast.
“Dev?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you still want to know about my day?”
My eyes drift open. A murmured affirmation barely leaves my suddenly parched mouth, so I nod instead, my head moving against his bicep, where I lay curled against him.
He tugs me closer. “I spent the morning on a
cancer unit.”
“That can’t be fun.”
I can feel him shrug, the movement of his chest, his arms, his neck, behind me. “I’m used to it. Doesn’t usually get to me; I just remind myself why we’re there. If we don’t stay in front of people, the doctors, nurses, everybody, we won’t be able to help.”
When he dips his head forward so he can exhale into my hair, I want to make him stop talking because I suddenly don’t want to know any more. Instead, I grind my jaw together and start breathing through my nose, hoping the unevenness of it will be less noticeable that way.
“We met this woman today. Cassandra. She’s end stage, getting ready to go home because that’s where she wants to die. And even though I’ve seen plenty of people so close to death you think they’re two breaths away, this time it completely knocked me on my ass.”
I can feel his body start to edge away, the tiniest rotation that feels like miles. As much as I want to close the gap again, I stay still.
“Her daughter was there. She’s, maybe . . . eleven or twelve? She’s made, like, a little nest for herself in her mom’s hospital room. The windowsills are wide enough that she can sit up there, so she has this Hello Kitty blanket wrapped around herself and she was all curled up on some pillows, reading a book with these gothic fairies on the cover. When I saw her there, her mom so close to gone and her dad looking like a zombie, it was a fucking flashback to my life at fifteen. Except I was reading comic books and graphic novels.”
Rolling onto his back, his body leaves mine exposed to the cool air of the room. I turn to find his heat again, setting my head against his chest and sliding one of my legs over his.
“The doctor was in there talking to her parents, and they were kind of whispering, like that helps somehow. She’s old enough to get it all, and for some fucked-up reason, nobody remembers that. They talk like you can’t hear them, pretend you’re too young to understand. But you hear everything.”