The Year of Us 2: February
1. Reese
CHAPTER 1
Reese
Cory’s fingers were long and slender, pressing inside of me and deeper until they reached my prostate. He cupped his other hand around my balls, cradling my sac in the palm of his hand while taking my cock into the depths of his hot mouth. He consumed me, and the whole time those mischievous blue eyes sparkled up at me with a kind of knowing I’d spent the past month trying to forget.
I blinked the fantasy of him out of my mind and braced myself against the wall of my shower, shooting a fierce orgasm against the white tile. I continued to stroke myself to the point of discomfort, then gave it one more tug before rinsing my fingers and my dick under the spray of the shower head.
It had been something like five weeks since our little hotel encounter. He was back in New York or Dallas or whatever city his work took him to, and I was still in LA, but almost every night when I closed my eyes and took myself in hand, he was as real beside me as he’d been the night we met. The one thing I’d never done was entertain thoughts of the little things he’d hinted at, the implications of me being a dominant, but still getting on my knees for him.
I didn’t want to kneel, didn’t want to do what I was told, but the memory of his mouth when he called me a good boy was indelibly printed on my brain, the words whispering in my ear every time I stroked my cock and thought of him. I’d done everything I could to distract myself from the pull of him, including heading to Rapture on more than one occasion to find someone else to play with.
After leaving the hotel—and Cory—just before sunrise, I’d worried some part of me had been broken, that I wouldn’t like the things I’d liked before him. But I had, thankfully. My body and my brain responded as normal to the sight of a man on his knees for me. When I picked up leather cuffs and a paddle, my hands knew what to do. I got my partner off, got myself off, all was well… but it was impossible to ignore the nagging chase for more that always settled around me at the end of the night.
Had it always been there? I started to wonder if I’d just suppressed it because the idea of switching was such an improbability. But as the days crept on and the time between the experience and the present grew, I began to wonder if the craving was more for Cory and not necessarily for some kind of submission.
I was going to think myself into a hole over the entire thing—again—so I turned off the shower and busied myself with getting ready for work. It was the weekend after Valentine’s Day and my apartment still bore the marks of Morgan’s date night assault, because when we were both single, we were inseparable. We’d spent the late hours of the fourteenth together after I’d gotten off work, of course, sitting on the couch eating conversation hearts and recounting stories of all the people we’d let get away.
“You know his name,” she’d reminded me, tearing open a package of foil heart confetti and flicking pieces into my face. “You can find him.”
“That’s stalker behavior.”
“Stalking is hot.” She laughed and sprinkled some more hearts onto me.
“You read too much,” I told her, but the idea of chasing Cory down was still in the front of my head a week later.
After getting dressed in a pair of torn black jeans and a well-worn black band shirt I’d picked up at some point in my life, the band logo long faded toward oblivion. I laced up my Converse, grabbed my things and a bottle of water, then locked up and headed to the car.
The routine was welcome, especially after having the night before off. Normally I worked every night of every weekend, but since I pulled so many hours on Valentine’s, I’d gotten the next Friday off. I hadn’t made much use of the time, but now that it was Saturday, I was ready to get back into the swing of work. I liked the socialization and I really liked the tips.
The night started slow, which was usual for a Saturday. By ten, the bar was packed and I hadn’t even had a second to stop and grab a drink of water. I was stuck down at one end of the bar and my co-worker Heather was at the other. She caught my attention at one point, and I met her in the middle, hands busy shaking a martini into the perfect blend.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She puffed out her bottom lip and huffed a breath, the air pushing her magenta pink bangs out of her eye. “There’s a guy at the other end of the bar who says our whiskey is shit.”
“It is,” I agreed, twisting the shaker loose so I could pour out the drink I’d been working on.
“He said he was here last month and you poured him a good one, but I don’t know what label you used. He told me to ask.”
The breath rattled around my lungs, eyes immediately darting down to her end of the bar, trying to search out the shine of a Rolex or the arrogance of a monogrammed pocket.
“What?” I asked. It was a ridiculous question, but my skin prickled with goosebumps and my ability to speak was just…gone.
“He’s not accepting no for an answer,” she said.
I scoffed, remembering the steps and skewering two olives for the martini I’d just made. I passed the drink to Heather and wiped my hands on the towel hanging out of my pocket.
“Yeah. I can’t imagine he would.”