by Edie Danford
Pete is circumcised, his cock as graceful and sleek as the rest of his body. I want to ask if an uncut cock might bother him. I would be fine with putting on a condom right away. But before I can figure out how to word the question, he says, “You’re gorgeous, Marek. I love the way you look. So much.”
“I’m glad,” I say, speeding up my strokes. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back. “Usually, all I have to do is think of you… But tonight you’re here. I’m here.” My breath gets stuck in my throat. I moan, thumbing away the pre-come building in my slit.
“Marek?”
“Yes?” I raise my head, blink my eyes open. I’m a little dizzy. The alcohol in my system is doing interesting things to my ability to focus on anything but sensation.
Or maybe this feeling is all about being naked with Pete. How can I not focus on pleasure? Everything it means, everything it makes me feel, every way Pete delivers it to me. With smiles and touches and words and concerns… And, oh fuck, with the way he looks.
He’s on his side, closer to the bed’s edge. He’s watching what my hand is doing to my cock. His own hand is engaged in similar activity.
His gaze meets mine and he says, “You’re going to give it to me when you go, right?”
“Oh God.”
“Are you gonna go now?”
“Mmm. Two seconds.”
“C’mere.” He beckons me forward with curving fingers.
I take a step. A gasping noise erupts from my throat. Pete opens his mouth.
“Oh fuck.” My first shot hits his chin. He tips his head, getting closer, catching the second, third, fourth shots on his tongue. Then I lose count.
The orgasm is a vortex that sucks up every thought, every feeling, and all I can do is wait to stop spinning. When I do, Pete has moved closer and he’s beginning to lap at my cockhead, cleaning me up with his tongue in typical caring and efficient Pete fashion.
Luckily, I’m close enough to the bed that when my knees gave way, I’m able to break my fall on the bed. Sort of. Pete’s on the bed too, and his body is better than the mattress. He has arms to hold me, legs to wrap around me, words to whisper against my hair.
Laughter is the next thing I’m aware of. Lots of it. He’s poking at me, moving me around. Apparently coming has turned me into a rag doll. I’m a happy rag doll. I can feel the big smile on my face. And, when Pete climbs on top of me, straddling my lap, taking my face in shaky hands, the smile becomes even bigger.
“You,” he says. He kisses me, a delicious, open-mouthed one that allows him to share lots of flavors, lots of feelings. “Are.” Another kiss. These kisses were apparently life-giving kisses. Rejuvenating and reviving. The use of my limbs is coming back to me. My hands are on his waist. His skin is silky, warm. “Amazing.”
“No,” I say. “You are amazing. A pure form of energy. I am going to have to keep you. Nail down your qualities. Study you closely.”
“Perform experiments?” He wiggles and I become very aware of the jut of his cock over my belly.
“Lots of experiments.”
“Intense ones? That produce earth-shattering results?”
“Definitely. Life-altering.”
He leans forward and gives me another kiss. Our lips are warmed up now. They move together, singing breathy songs. Creating the perfect music, the perfect dance, virtuosos who’ve been practicing together forever.
“Pete,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I’m ready now. Are you ready?”
“I am so ready.”
I smile against his mouth. “Good. I want to do it like this. I want to see you, kiss you like this. But be connected too. Inside. Outside. Every side.”
His eyes sparkle again as he looks down at me.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He climbs off me and the bed. I watch as he picks up the lube and then retrieves another item from the dresser. A condom.
I hold my breath, watching as he carefully tears open the wrapper.
“You don’t need to worry,” he says, his voice thick and raspy again. “They’re recently purchased. I haven’t kept any around in a while, because I haven’t been—” He swallows—a pained sound.
I reach for his hand, exhaling slowly. “It’s okay. I haven’t been, either. And you are very resourceful, as always.” When he drops the condom in my hand, I make a show of examining it. “I trust you purchased the perfect brand. Is it scented with orange and spice? Artisanal? Organic?”
He laughs and I want to sing out my feeling of success. Pete laughing at my very stupid joke, turning from slightly melancholy to silly in a few seconds, is pretty much the ultimate.
No. Wait. The look in his eyes as he watches me roll on the condom, the way he climbs on top of me again—a coordinated, swift motion that is (beyond doubt this time) his best dance move ever—the sexy pause in his breath as I pick up the lube and pour some on my fingers. These things are the ultimate.
Of course I’m going to have to change my standards, raise my bar, recalibrate all of this analysis second to second.
Because, God, the way he writhes and sighs and lets his head fall back as I explore the crease of his ass, find his hole. And, then, as I begin to test the tightness of the muscle there, to analyze the give, the delicate pulse, to make what’s warm and dry very slick—there’s that too.
For a couple minutes, these touches seem like they might be enough. My finger dips inside him, seeking, stretching, finding his secrets. His head falls back, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his hand clinging to his cock. It’s amazing to see him like this, to make him feel good like this. He is so beautiful.
But then he rises on his knees, my finger slides free from his body, and I know we both need more.
“I’m ready,” he says, looking down at me.
“Pete,” I whisper.
“What?” His dark eyes widen. His hand strokes my chest. My heart is beating so hard I’m sure he can feel it. Probably hear it and see it too. “What is it, baby?”
“I’m ready too. So ready. Love. That’s what we are doing, the energy we’re creating. I can feel it happening. Do you feel it?”
He nods. “I really do.”
I smile. He picks up the lube. Pours a streak on my condom-covered shaft. He begins to spread it with swift, efficient strokes. His gaze is steady on his task. The tip of his tongue is visible at the corner of his mouth. I laugh. It’s his dishwashing expression. Exactly.
His gaze meets mine. “Tickles?”
“No. Well, maybe. Mostly it feels fucking good. I’m laughing, though, because…” I gasp as he tugs my dick from my belly and rises to his knees. “Dishes.”
“Hold still,” he mutters, ignoring my dish comment, thank God. He has better things to think about. His brow is furrowing in concentration as he lines me up in the spot where I want to go so, so badly. “Just for a sec.”
I obey him, every muscle tensing, becoming rigid as he sinks down on me. “Oh fuck,” I moan. His body, Pete’s body, is holding me so tightly, giving me everything my body wants—heat and friction and tightness and him—with only a simple motion.
“Pete. You wouldn’t believe how you feel, pusinko. So…” I moan. “Why am I even trying to describe it?”
He laughs and then his ass makes contact with my balls. We’re as deeply connected as we can be.
“I would believe it,” he murmurs. “I can feel your heartbeat inside me, Marek.”
I tip my head back and groan again.
His hands are stroking my chest, soothing except for when he stops to tweak my nipples. “You can move now,” he whispers.
I cover my face with my hand. I feel so… He feels so. We feel so.
No. I’m trying to describe it again. Analyze as I always do. Make sense of the context, the sources, the results. But I am not an observer of this experiment. I am the experiment. Pete is my catalyst, and these incredible feelings are the awesome results.
“Or not.” He laughs softly and begins to
move on my cock. I open my eyes to watch. His eyes are closed. He’s concentrating. Using his knees and his thighs and his ass to gently and smoothly ride me. Up and down, with an unbelievably sexy grind on the downstroke.
I watch this process for a while, in a daze of pleasure. Then I join in, planting my feet on the mattress for leverage, easing up my hips each time he slides down.
“Marek.” His head falls forward. Short, panting breaths erupt from his parted lips. “Feels so good.”
“Don’t stop.”
He laughs. “I won’t. Not till we come.”
“I want to come when you do. You will let me know.”
“Grab me,” he says. “You can feel.”
Why hadn’t I thought of this? I lose a few breaths as I cup him in my hand, creating a column in my fingers. Here it is. Concentrated energy. I’m literally holding it my hand. We are manufacturing it with thrusts and grinds and strokes. Miraculously simple.
He leans forward a little. “Can I kiss you?” He gasps. Such a sexy way to take a breath. “God, Marek, I need to kiss you.”
“Yes. Please.” I raise my shoulders, tip my chin, use my free hand to cup the back of his head.
We kiss. Okay. And this is it. When our lips are sliding and slanting together over and over, when our tongues are tasting, when his body is clasping my cock like a hot fist and when my actual hot fist is clasping his cock. This is when it’s the ultimate. The best. The dream come true.
A few seconds later he freezes, then jerks and hollers my name. His jizz spills over my hand, coating our bellies. And happiness and pleasure burbles and boils over, the experiment out of our control now, erupting from me, shooting from my body and into his—the condom catching it because Pete’s prepared and he’s a careful and caring scientist—these are just bonus dreams. The jam in the kolache. The syrup on the pancakes. The twirling flourish at the end of one of Pete’s dances.
“Oh, wow,” he croaks between heaving breaths. He braces his hands against my shoulders and looks down at me, his eyelids heavy over his still-sparkling eyes. “Wow.”
I smile, stroking his sides, his hips, his knees, every part I can reach. “These results. They are excellent. Extraordinary. So much so that we will need to repeat this experiment. Attempt replication in a variety of settings. To make sure this is not a fluke. An anomaly.”
Laughing, he flops down on my chest. “Whatever you say, Professor,” he mumbles against my neck.
I wrap my arms around him, loving the glue-like qualities of sweat and jizz. I whisper things against his hair. A little Czech. A little French. Some English. Love words. Happiness words.
The heartbeat against my chest tells me he understands all of them.
Chapter 10
Pete
We follow Marek’s Sunday agenda. Yes, he’s actually made an agenda, typing it up in proper format and printing it off in his home office upstairs. He presented it while I was making breakfast, using my favorite sparkly rainbow magnet to tack it to the fridge.
After reading it, I made him take it down. Because what if Zoe or someone else came by and saw it up there?
There weren’t a lot of ways someone could interpret: New Business: A) Sixty-nining (M & P together); B) Pete fucks Marek; C) Marek > vibrating dildo > Pete.
He is thorough and precise with his agenda-making, of course. He’s already added “Frotting” to Old Business. We’d woken up together in my bed. Sweet smiles had turned into hot kisses had turned into rubbing our dicks together inside the hot column of Marek’s fingers. He’d come twice, I’d come once. Then, getting clean in the bathtub together, he’d blown me.
Seriously, with the way we’re sparking off each other—the feels and tension we’ve been building up and that explode, boom! with every brush of skin, every glance, every smile—the Old Business portion of the agenda is gonna be three pages long by midnight.
Anyway, after he’d obediently taken it off the fridge, he’d folded it and put it in his shirt pocket.
As I take my last bite of omelet, he’s unfolding the paper and looking at it with an analytical expression that’s exaggeratedly nerdy. Chin high, shoulders rigid, his gaze traveling down his nose to look at the paper he holds directly in his line of sight. I giggle because he’s hilarious. And I always laugh at his dumb jokes. Not just because they strike my funny bone, but because I really fucking love how he knows himself well enough—and is confident enough—to laugh at himself.
“Right. Let’s see, then,” he says in a maxed-out professorial voice, heavy on the Czech this morning. “What is next on the agenda.”
I stand, picking up my plate and then his, before carrying them to the sink. “Doing the dishes,” I say, smiling a little as I turn on the tap. I know the suggestion will get a rise out of him.
I’m not disappointed. “Absolutely not,” he says, all indignant, his chair scraping against the floor. “There is no room, no time, no interest in dishes on this agenda.”
He stands behind me. This morning when he puts his hands on my hips, I don’t think of awkwardness. I think of turning around and kissing the crap out of him. I keep rinsing the dishes, though, because I really do hate leaving a mess in the kitchen.
“If I don’t do them,” I say, “then tomorrow there will be a ginormous pile in this sink and maybe on the counters. And I’ll have to clean them up before I can start my day. ’Cause I hate starting the day with a dirty kitchen.”
“I will clean them up. Before bedtime. We will begin sharing household chores. We’ll take care of each other in this way too, right?”
His words pull the thread of tension I’ve been ignoring tight across my shoulders.
Shit. I’ve been hoping for more time before we have to have this conversation. I’ve wanted to come up with a good way to present my case, some sharp responses to the sharp questions I know he’ll ask. Last night when I’d been pacing around and stewing and worrying about him, I’d been too freaked out to come up with anything.
All I could think about was Marek. Having some horrific anxiety attack that I couldn’t save him from. Or at some wild and crazy party Steph Novak was hosting. Marek with a bunch of hot guys. Thirsty guys who, like Ro, would take one look at my Professor Adorkable and want to suck him down like a sweet, innocent milkshake. I don’t know if milkshakes can be innocent, but if Marek were one, he would be. Also, he’d be my favorite flavor. Strawberry-banana with an extra dose of malt.
I’ve been jealous plenty of times in my life, but, before, jealousy made me feel calculated. I’d get mad. I’d plot out a way to get what I wanted but was being denied.
For the eight hours I’d waited for Marek to get home, there hadn’t been any plotting or calculating. There’d been lots of ice-cream eating and sun salutations and bad-movie watching. And freaking out.
And then, when he’d come busting in, crashing around and looking all buzzed and pleased with his day, I felt like I’d been turned on my head the same as he’d done to my wingchair.
He’d been pleased not because he’d been railed, nailed, and orgy-initiated by Stephan and his squad, but because he’d accomplished the mission I’d given him. And he’d been kind to our needy friends Zoe and Whitaker. And he’d been very pleased to see me.
I’d been so bowled over with love (yes, goddamn it, love), the only thing to do was fall into his arms. And have joyous sex. Lots and lots of it.
Now his hands, sure and confident, travel from my hips to my sides and then around to spread over my torso and belly. “Did you get enough to eat?” he asks, bending to nuzzle behind my ear. “I could make a croissant run—”
“I’m good.” I spread my fingers over his, loving the way his touch could communicate so much. And feeling a little breathless at how his question, his simple offer, tells me about so much more than just concern over my smallish breakfast.
I turn off the faucet.
“What’s wrong?” He places his hands on my shoulders, turning me around so I face him.
; “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t. Not if the idea of it puts that look on your face.”
I try to put a different look on my face. Doesn’t work. And I can’t stand the thought of wrecking his happiness. I wrap my arms around him and smash my cheek against his chest. Warm lips press against the top of my head. Strong hands clasp my back. He smells so good. He is good. A good person. I heave a shuddering breath.
“Yes,” he says. “This is what happens when we stray from the agenda.”
“Hugging?” I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt.
His laugh vibrates under my cheek. “Hugging. Okay. That’s good, actually. We can add it.”
“It is good,” I murmur, still holding him tight. “I like hugging.”
“Do you know what else is good about hugging?” His body starts to rock gently, his hands moving from my back to my ass, protecting me from the sink’s cold edge.
“What?”
“It can quickly turn into…” He takes a couple steps back, pulling me with him.
I glance up at his face. He’s smiling. “Dancing,” he says.
I laugh. Can’t help it. He looks so happy, and eager to make me happy.
“Don’t move until I come back,” he says. He walks to the counter, picks up my laptop. A few keystrokes later, my clean-the-kitchen playlist comes jiving out of the speaker on the other side of the room.
“Good,” he says. He walks back to me, the twinkling notes of “Lucky Star” bouncing around him. He holds out his hands. “You will teach me,” he demands. “We will clean the kitchen together. While dancing. This is the best method, yes?”
What can I do but take his hands and agree? And as he spins me around, laughing his rusty laugh, knocking into stools and making me giggle with his nails-on-chalkboard imitation of Madonna, I keep thinking it. Yes. Yes.
Our first dancing lesson results in a clean kitchen, some mostly clean dancing, and some very dirty kissing. So dirty that we have to retreat to my room.
We’re naked and on the clean sheet I’ve managed to wrangle onto my mattress when Marek asks about my tattoo.