28. Kingston
Twenty-Eight
Kingston
Toby tastes minty. We have waited so long for this; I want to rush, but I hold back. I’m the kid with the marshmallow who knows if I wait a little longer, I can get everything I want and more.
So we kiss, slowly. Thoroughly. We kiss like we’re trying to reinvent it, with our lips and teeth and tongues. With our entire bodies. I’ve been intimate with many people in my life. I’ve had casual sex, intense sex, and everything in between. I’ve been with guys who barely said a word and with ones who wouldn’t stop talking. I’ve been with men who were ashamed of what we did together, ones who wanted nothing but my body, ones who were intimidated by my mind.
I’ve been wanted, desired many times before.
I’ve never been with someone I want as much as Toby.
I thought he was perfect the first time I saw him, so perfect as to be unreal, a caricature of a man, the kind you might find in a romantic novel, the kind that doesn’t exist in real life.
But then he became a part of my life and I know how very real he is. He’s no less perfect for it. Perhaps he’s even more perfect.
Having him in my bed at long last, having him look at me with those liquid gold eyes and tell me that the feelings in his heart echo mine—it’s almost too much to take in. And yet, he’s here under my fingertips, flesh and bone. I stroke his arm from shoulder to wrist, his muscles firm and smooth, and slot my fingers between the gaps of his infinitely clever hands.
Touching him is nothing like I imagined, the times I could bring myself to fantasize about how it would feel. He’s not passive, not pushy. He meets me where I am, allowing me close, while his own hands wander over my body, cataloging and inventorying and turning me on with their explorations.
Making out, touching our thighs and feet, our chests, through the few clothes we have on—it’s so good that I don’t think I could handle it if we were completely naked. Not yet.
Everything with Toby has been a combination of slow and fast. This is no different. My cock is hard, already straining for release, while my head wants to slow down and appreciate every tiny sigh, each patch of skin and brush of hair. My hand grazes over the front of Toby’s boxers—accidentally, I swear—and I feel the tip of his engorged cock. It brings me back down to earth in an instant. I yank my hand away and grip the sheets instead of him. God, there’s so much I want, and I don’t know how to start.
Toby seems unaware of my struggle. “Kingston,” he murmurs into my neck. “You smell like honey.”
“Honey,” I repeat, dredging up the memory of my father calling my mother honey once upon a time, perhaps picked up from one of our southern relatives. I make the connection—I’ve been wrong all this time; his eyes aren’t amber, they’re honey. “Like your eyes.”
“My eyes? They’re brown,” he says, sounding distracted. I love being his distraction.
I snort. “Hardly. My eyes are brown,” I say. “But yours are golden. Like honey.”
“If my eyes are honey, then yours are toast. You know that really dark sourdough after it’s been through the toaster oven and slathered with butter?”
I laugh, long and deep. “My eyes are toast and yours are honey?”
“Mmm.” He kisses my lips. “Toast and honey are a good combination.”
“You are—” I’d say cheesy, too much, and sentimental as hell, but they wouldn’t be criticisms. I happen to like all of that. “Never mind. Toast and honey are a good combination.”
“Now I’m kind of hungry,” Toby says.
I laugh harder, roll onto my back and pull him on top of me. He settles easily but keeps his crotch away from mine, slightly conspicuously. “You want a snack, honey?”
“Honey?” He bites his lip, and I know he’s deciding if he likes the endearment or not.
“Yeah,” I say, not backing down. “We can get a midnight snack.” It’s an out of a sort.
He searches my face with his honey eyes, bites his plush pink bottom lip. “No, I don’t want a snack. I want—” His hand hovers over the front of my pajama pants. “We don’t have to do anything… complicated. But can I touch you?”
I groan at the idea of doing something complicated with Toby. “Yeah, touch me.” I’ve never wanted anything as much in my entire life as I want Toby’s hands on me.
He presses down with the palm of his hand, feeling out my cock, which is lying thick against my thigh. He smooths the shape of me through the thin fabric, then looks up. “You’re not circumcised?”
“No, never got around to it,” I joke, impressed at my ability to form a complete sentence while Toby’s touching my dick.
“I’m not, either,” he says. “Huh.”
He takes his hand away and I ask, “Can I see?”
He hesitates for a bare moment. “I did promise you could look.”
Looking at Toby is second only to touching him on my want-to-do list. “Please.”
“You, too,” he says.
I nod and then we both reach for our waistbands. Toby climbs off me to shove off his boxers, removing his shirt a second later. I’ve got my pajama pants halfway down my legs, but my coordination takes a hit as I absorb the sight of Toby completely naked for the first time. I’ve seen him shirtless before, in nothing but a towel. But this is different. His erection proudly stands away from his dark blond bush, nuts hanging behind. The head of his cock is the same pink as his nipples, his lips. His skin is flush with blood and I revel in the knowledge of his vitality.
“Gorgeous.”
He smiles, pleased, though his eyes are on my cock, not my face. “You’re—Kingston, I’m going to have to draw you. I hope that’s okay.”
“For public consumption?”
“No, at least, not at first. I’d like to keep you to myself for now.”
“In that case, you can do whatever you want.”
“Really?” His eyes are on mine now, and they burn with an intensity that makes me feel hot all over.
I finally kick off my pajamas, then hiss when Toby wraps his whole hand around my length and starts rubbing the sensitive skin at the crown. I let out a noise, urge him closer with my hand on his hip. “Come here.”
He wedges himself close and I wrap my hand around him. He’s hot to my touch, and I smear my thumb around the head, damp with pre-come.
It’s hard to concentrate on giving him a decent hand job when he’s working me like a pro, even dry. Speaking of—“Toby, honey, wait. Let me get some lube.”
“Uh. Yeah. Sure. Wait.” He takes his hand off me. “I’m actually, uh, super close.”
I lift my eyebrows. Already? On the other hand, it has been an inordinately long time for both of us. If I hadn’t masturbated that morning thinking about Toby in the shower, I’d probably be a lot closer myself. “You want me to stop?” I ask.
“No, keep going. Make me come.”
It’s a simple command, but one I take seriously. I work him with long, firm strokes, then switch to shallow rubs, concentrating around the crown and the nerves there that always make me squirm with the need to shoot. Toby responds as expected, groaning and clutching my shoulder while his cock disappears and reappears in the sheath of my hand.
He cups his own balls, and I make a mental note to play with them next time, because a couple of tugs later, his eyes are screwed shut and he’s moaning what sounds like my name. The first spurt coats my hand, but then he opens his eyes and twists his hips and the rest lands on my dick, wet, hot fluid that feels like him marking me. I’d normally take exception to the presumption, but with Toby, I only find it incredibly hot that he wants to get me messy.
He’s barely done, come still dribbling out of his slit, when he puts his hands back on me and I realize what he’s doing—jacking me off using his come for lube. I almost orgasm right then. I manage to hang on, enjoying the slip-slide of his hand on my length. It’s not as slippery as actual lube, and it starts to dry up faster, but it’s still fucking sexy. Toby’s look of concentration as he jacks me with a single-minded intensity has my orgasm suddenly sparking through me. My balls empty themselves in long pulses that drain me, body and brain both.
I relax into the mattress as Toby wipes his hand on his discarded shirt. He looks at the mixture of fluids on my skin and bites his lip. “You’re a mess.”
“You came on me,” I accuse without heat. “You made me a mess.”
“You want a shower? Or a flannel?”
“If you’re offering, I’ll take a washcloth.”
He goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open. He runs the water for a while. I presume he’s cleaning himself up, but when he returns with a wrung out cloth and starts wiping me down with it, I realize he let the water warm up before wetting the cloth.
“Thanks,” I say, taking over the cleaning job myself.
He just hums and finds his boxers, slides them on, then offers me my pajama pants. I toss the cloth through the open bathroom door to deal with in the morning, slide my pants on over my freshly clean skin, then snap off the reading light and plunge us into near-total darkness.
Bonelessly, I settle back down into the bed. I have no idea what time it is or how many hours there are before the alarm I set earlier will wake me up, but it doesn’t matter. I haven’t had an orgasm that good in a long time and I know I’ll sleep like the dead for however long I have.
“Kingston?” Toby asks, settling onto the other side of the bed, his hand finding mine under the covers and tangling our fingers together with a surety that makes my heart light.
“Mmm?” My eyes are already closed, but I could wake up if I had to.
“I’m happy you want me.”
That’s only exactly what I’ve wanted to hear since we met. “I’m happy too. Go to sleep.”
He leaves our fingers touching and then I’m asleep.