12. Oli
Oli
Porcelain
“ M y…lips?” his dark brown eyebrows furrow.
I’ve fantasized about his lips for most of my damn life. And earlier, when I’d held his cheek and my thumb skimmed the corner of them, I could hardly breathe. They’re the perfect blend of masculine and soft. The deep cupid’s bow looks like a little valley. I’m nervous and scared that I'm pushing myself too far and too fast, but like most things with Jorge, I feel immense peace. He soothes me just with his presence.
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“Y-Yeah,” he breathes and stays perfectly still.
Butterflies explode in my stomach as I lift my hand. I can’t decide how to touch them, so it hovers for a few beats. Gingerly, I raise my pointer finger and stroke the dip of his upper lip. Jorge’s lashes flutter as he sucks in a sharp breath. I study his face, watching the tiny twitches in his jaw and the flare of his nostrils. Emboldened, I drag the pad of my finger over his lip. Pure energy buzzes through me as I swipe it back and forth.
“Okay?” I ask again because he’s ramrod stiff.
He nods, pushing into my finger.
I trace the seam of his mouth, loving the soft texture. He’s beautiful, always so beautiful. Moving lower, I pluck the plump bottom lip and then switch to my thumb. The faintest noise leaves him while I repeat my motions from the top one. Clockwise, I stroke both lips, applying pressure before releasing. And when I stop at the middle of his bottom lip, I can’t help but tug it down. He whimpers, his eyes closing. When he squirms beside me, I flick my eyes down to his cock. He’s hard, his bulge pressing against the seam of his jeans.
He’s smaller than I thought, especially when I could only feel his erection earlier. Knowing he doesn’t have a baseball bat between his legs helps. It makes my heart race. Just how small is it?
“Oli,” he whines, my thumb still holding down his lip almost obscenely.
I tear my hand away. “Sorry,” I rasp.
When his pretty brown eyes open again, his pupils are blown out. “My turn.”
I swallow hard as blood rushes to my dick.
My aversion to touch doesn’t change my bodily needs. And it needs something currently—it’s demanding something. I feel dizzy, excited, and nervous, but I am relieved this is finally happening. However small, it feels so monumental to me. Life-altering. Jorge wants me. And he’s been so patient, so fucking understanding. It hurts knowing I can’t be a man and show him how much I appreciate it.
“Alright,” I say, preparing for whatever he might want to ask me. A flash of fear crowds my emotions. A warning bell sounding off that he will want to take. He will want , and I won’t.
“I want to feel your pecs. Seriously, they’re like bricks.”
I blow out a breath, flexing subtly, and he purrs like the kitten he is. “Yeah?”
“If that’s okay.”
“It is.” I absently widen my legs, making room for…I don’t know what.
“For best optimal touching, I need to get closer,” he says huskily.
“Alright,” I rasp.
My arms go to my sides, and he slowly climbs into my lap. He sits on my left thigh, his legs hooking in between mine. Twisting his torso, he gently lays his palms on my chest. Our eyes find one another’s, and he bites his lip. There’s a light squeeze where he has his fingers.
“Holy fuck,” he says, shocked. “Jesus.” And then he kneads the fleshy muscles, working his blunt nails through my shirt.
My cock fucking throbs from the sensation. “What?” I chuckle, trying not to move so he doesn’t feel what he’s doing to me.
With each hand, he smashes my pecs together like tits. “These are fantastic,” he groans and then jiggles them.
We both crack up because he is a dork. Even with all this tension between us, he still finds a way to make me laugh. “Never thought you were a chest guy,” I tease.
“Me either,” he says in awe. “Kind of want to smash my face in there. Motorboat you real good.”
“Too bad,” I say. “It’s my turn.”
“But I’m not done!” he pouts and drags his thumbs over my nipples.
I hiss through my teeth. Fuck, they’re sensitive. “Sorry!” he squeaks and rips his hands away.
“No, it’s fine. I liked it.” Taking his wrists, I put his hands back on my chest.
He’s so close to me that his breaths are hitting my face. I can tell he wants to fondle my chest, so I coax him to do so, feeling in control for the first time in my life. Like he’s putty in my hands, and I can mold him however I want. While he gently massages my pecs, I momentarily blank out on what I want to do next. This is so nice.
“Can I ask you to do something?” I whisper.
“Of course. Do you want me to move?”
I shake my head, feeling the soft brown hair on his forearms. It’s a light dusting that compliments his olive complexion. “I want you to touch my waist.”
My heart shudders as I say it. That spot of my body holds so much pain, so much fucking negative energy. It’s a test of my own. How will I respond knowing Jorge is touching me there? That…that it isn’t him. This rare bravery I am experiencing could vanish at any moment. I could be triggered as quick as lightning, so I’m taking advantage of it, holding it tightly.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod.
“Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop. Okay?”
“I’ll tell you,” I promise.
He sucks in a breath, and his fingers shake slightly. Slowly inching them down my chest, he feels my abs on his descent. The lower he goes, the faster my heart beats. I can feel the panic just beneath the surface. It’s thrashing and banging to come forward. It’s demanding that I acknowledge it. To go back to that moment when my control, my voice, and my choice were stolen from me.
I swallow hard, and I close my eyes when his hands settle on the dip in my waist.
“Talk to me, beautiful,” he whispers.
“I’m okay,” I rasp, focusing on the sensation.
“You can touch me there, too. If it’ll help.”
More butterflies dance inside me. I grab his waist with my left hand, settling right over the bone. After long seconds, I finally open my eyes again and find his pooling. “That’s it. You’re doing so good, Oli.”
“More,” I tell him before I change my mind. “Touch me more.”
He shimmies off my thigh and straddles me. His movements are delicate, precise, and unhurried. When the round globes of his ass connect with my legs, I nearly bolt off the couch. Every instinct in me roars to life, demanding I flee. That I protect myself from the hurt, from the darkness clouding my vision, caging me in. Jorge takes my hands and holds them. Simply holds them while I work through my bullshit.
“Too much?”
“No,” I growl. “No. I want this. I fucking want it.” I shake my head, determined to stay right here.
“Oli,” he coos.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” It’s like a broken record with me.
“You’re not. You’re shaking, babe.”
Fuck. I am.
Jorge climbs off me, sits on the empty cushion beside me, and I sag into the couch. Goddammit. Goddamnit! I scrub at my face, hating that I can’t be with him how I want. Hating that I’m like this. Fuck PTSD. Fuck trauma.
“It’s alright. I’m not upset.”
“I am ,” I cry, facing him. Tears build in the corners of my eyes. “I’ve wanted you for so long. So fucking long, and I had you. I had you right here in my hands.” I hold them up. “Do you know how badly I need you? How much I crave you?”
His eyes water, pooling like rivers of honey gold.
“I’m sick of being this way, Jorge. I just want to be a normal man. A man that touches and kisses and fucks. God, I want it more than anything. At least when I was high off my ass, I could do some of it, even for a little while. I could forget that I’m broken. I could forget that I—”
Jorge slips his hand in mine, pulls it to his lips, and kisses its back. “Take a breath,” he tells me. “Come on. In and out.”
I follow his lead, sucking in lungfuls through my nose and out through my mouth. Dr. Langley has gone over this, too, but it works better with Jorge here for some reason. I squeeze his hand, feeling stronger with every breath taken. And after a good ten reps, my heart rate is normal. He smiles sweetly at me, cups his other hand over our combined ones, and waits.
He’s so patient with me. It’s truly mind-boggling.
My own family was never like this. Even Nyx would get upset after a while. Despite being the least overbearing of our whole family, she wasn’t immune to my episodes. At the height of my addiction, I was unbearable to be around. Constantly lashing out, angry at the world, and too high to think before I acted. I said so many horrible things to the people I love.
Even Phoenix. Especially Phoenix.
He’d been there when I overdosed. He was the only one, and I screamed at him. Too fucked up to even look at him. I’d needed him, and he left me. Sure, it was selfish of me to even ask, considering Jorge’s grandma had died, and Phoenix was close to her too, but the pain I was in that night was too sharp, and unfortunately, he was guilty by association.
I still feel that way.
My therapist says I’m valid in the way I feel but reminds me almost every session that it’s unfair to hold something against Phoenix that he’s unaware of. But that’s the thing: no one is aware. Not even Dr. Langley. I won’t tell him who it was. I won’t utter his name.
“Better?” Jorge asks.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize for this,” he brings our hands to his chest, “never.”
“Why do you put up with it? You could have any guy you want.”
He smirks, that cocky asshole. “It’s my ass, isn’t it?” I snort, leaning my shoulder against his. He plays with my fingers, watching how they bend as he traces my callouses. “In all seriousness, I’m 98% sure it’s just you. The whole being attracted to a man thing.”
“How do you know if you don’t try?” The words taste bitter; jealousy pinches my chest. But he deserves to know he isn’t…tied to me. I know I spewed my deepest desires to him minutes ago, but he isn’t mine. Not in that way.
Jorge shrugs, dragging his fingertip over the lines of my palm. It’s a comforting touch, one I happily accept. “It’s not about that. I already know what I like.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I’m a bottom,” he says with a cute frown and a sigh. “That was a little disappointing, I’ll admit. Finding that out all alone. But, at least I know.”
“And what makes you so sure that you’re a bottom?” The question leaves my lips breathless and wanton. I’m invested in knowing the answer.
He peeks at me, blushing. Clearing his throat, he stops his ministrations on my hand and squirms. “Icamehandsfree.”
I laugh, pressing my shoulder into him more and taking over. Now, it’s my turn to play with his fingers. “Come again?”
“I… came … hands-free,” he grumbles.
Images flash through my mind. I can picture it. Him exploring his body, teasing his hole, fucking himself—it’s beautiful and not at all frightening. In fact, I’m eager to learn more. I wet my lips, tracing my finger up and down his middle one.
“And?” I prompt.
“You really want to know?”
“Mhm,” I switch to his ring finger, “I do.”
“It was amazing. Seriously, I wish I would’ve discovered my ass sooner in life. Would’ve made up for all the pitiful jerk off sessions.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “What about you? What do…you like?”
I debate telling him.
Before…everything, I’d always envisioned being the dominant partner. I liked the idea of taking care of someone. I liked the idea of bringing pleasure. Later, when I found myself in situations with women, I sought out submissive partners. It’d seemed like the safer option, but deep down, I guess I’ve always known I’d prefer that. To be in control. And because I’ve never been with a man in a way I could enjoy, I’ve only had vague ideas of what I’d want. Ultimately, I like the person, not the parts, but I do appreciate parts. I appreciate Jorge’s.
Which leads me to my answer. “Well, I know I’m not a bottom.”
“Ohthankgod,” he wheezes, then laughs. “I mean. Not that I’m opposed to experimenting. I’d definitely do you, but—”
“Jorge,” I interrupt him because I see his mind going into overdrive. He glances at me, those fluffy curls bobbing as he does. “I’m not ready for that. Nowhere close.”
“I know. I know. I’m not saying I’m going to just present my ass to you this second.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “This is wild.”
“What?”
“Us. This. That I’m even talking about it and not panicking.”
He nods, understanding. “It’s because I’m the best.” His smile is so bright and contagious, but his words are true.
“Yes, you are, kitten. You are.”
I ’m alone at my studio, shoving salt-free pretzels in the boys’ cage because I got home later than expected. After the intense touch session Jorge and I had, we agreed to take a break. We watched a movie, and then I left. He practically begged me to spend the night, but I needed time to process everything. Had I spent the night, I might’ve pushed my limits. I can’t have him see me crack like I have in the past. Not yet. It’s clear that we both want each other, and I want to keep it that way.
The strides I made today are insane. Unbelievable. But I did it. We were…fuck… intimate. More so than I’ve ever been with anyone. The love I have for him keeps growing and changing. It’s interwoven into my very being at this point. I take a quick shower, feeling him all around me even though he’s gone. His long fingers on my waist, on my chest, in my hair. I’m practically vibrating under the shower spray.
His weight on my lap was perfect. If I ignore that freakout, I can savor those few seconds we were close. I want to be that close again. Fuck, I want to kiss him and feel him. To learn every inch of his body, map out the contours of his little muscles, and savor the feel of his skin. I slide my hand down my stomach, my abs slick with soap.
My hand curls around my cock, hard and weeping.
It’s been a while since I jacked off, but usually it’s mechanical. Something done out of necessity so my balls don’t hurt.
Right now, I’m imagining Jorge discovering his prostate for the first time while I slide my fist up and down. I picture him rutting onto his fingers, his little cock bobbing and leaking. I can see his curls fanned around him like a crown, his cheeks dark from exertion, and his gorgeous mouth parted in ecstasy.
I want to see it. Fuck I want to tell him what to do, how to do it, and when. Have him show me how much of a bottom he is. Want him to—
“ Shit ,” I gasp, feeling my cock jerk in my hand, cum spilling on the shower floor.
I rest my head against the tile wall, milking the rest out of my slit, wanting nothing more than those visions to be reality. I see Dr. Langley tomorrow, so maybe he’ll offer me some advice on how to do it. How to be with Jorge in any capacity. Hell, I’d be content just to watch. With a sigh, I clean myself up and leave the shower.
I barely have the towel around my hips when I hear a loud, sharp knock on my front door.
Frowning, I hurry and throw on some shorts. Only two people know where I live. Jorge and Nyx. My parents know I live somewhere but don’t have the address. I don’t imagine Nyx would just show up without calling or texting. Jorge would. He’s done it plenty. A smile breaks over my face as I hurry to the door, unlock it, and pull it open. I don’t even care that I don’t have a shirt on. My heart flutters wildly because he needs me enough to come over despite us being apart for about an hour. He—
“Hi.”
Phoenix is at my door.
Phoenix is at my door.
My older brother stands awkwardly, his long hair hanging down his shoulders and the giant plugs in his ears jiggling as he leans to peer inside my apartment. And just like that, all my happiness siphons right out of me down an invisible drain at my feet.
“Look,” he starts, raking a hand through his hair. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know you don’t want to see me. But I just wanted to tell you—in person—that I’m so fucking proud of you, Oli.”
My eyes burn, and my throat seizes and collapses on itself.
“I won’t stay,” he rushes out. “Eli is in the car waiting for me. You had to know that. I’m proud of you, man. So proud. And I miss you.”
I blink, gripping my doorhandle like a lifeline. “Alright,” I croak.
“If you ever want to, you can come by my place or the studio. Whatever. I’m gonna be here, okay?”
I don’t say anything.
“Well,” he sighs. “It’s good to see you. You look good. Happy.”
Why can’t I fucking talk? Why can’t I tell him what I’ve been dying to for twelve years?
“Oh,” he says suddenly, reaching into his pocket. “I found this the other day at Mom and Dad’s.” He shoves a tiny white box out. “Figured you’d want it.”
I take the box with speed, hiding partially behind my door. “I’ll talk to you later,” I manage to get out.
He nods. For once, he does seem sincere. He seems sad. “Bye, Oli. I love you.”
I want to say it back. The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them instead and watch him leave.
I shut the door, sagging against it as I hear his booted feet carry him away. When I am certain he’s long gone, I open the box. My eyes water over immediately. It’s a miniature guitar that he and I painted when we were little. Phoenix started playing drums before I showed an interest in instruments, but once I decided on the guitar, Mom had gotten this kit for us to paint together. I can still remember when we did it. We made such a mess…
Our initials are written in permanent marker along the neck of the three-inch wooden guitar, and the neon green and brown colors are sloppy. It looks like baby shit, in all honesty. But we’d done it together. He’s got a drum from the same set with an equally terrible paint job.
I hold the nicknack to my chest, a sob ripping from my throat.
How the fuck do I tell my brother that he’s friends with the person who broke me? How do I tell him he was there the first time it happened? How do I look him in the eye and believe a single word because he ignored me when I’d tried to tell him before? Perhaps he’s changed. It’s possible. I know I have. But it all hurts too much to see or think straight. I lost so much because of what he did to me, but never in a million years did I think I’d lose Phoenix, too.
And I did.
I lost him.
I lost the other half of my heart.