Chapter 32 Mickey #2
He laughs against my leg, wet and broken. “You can feel me crying on you? That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
He lifts his head. His face is a disaster. Flushed, his eyes swollen, his nose running, and he is so breathtakingly beautiful to me. Benji showed up at my worst time and he stayed. Now he’s kneeling between my legs crying because my nervous system decided to come back from the dead.
“Come back up here,” I say.
He crawls up the bed and I pull him in. He presses his face into my neck and I hold him, his breathing ragged and uneven against my throat. We stay like that long enough for his breathing to calm down.
He pulls back and looks at me. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and the gesture is so unselfconscious, so completely Benji, that it makes my heart ache.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m done crying now, I swear. That was my one breakdown for the night and it’s over. Now I’m going to put my mouth on you and I’m going to be very sexy about it.”
“Take your time. It’s not a race. We’ve got all night.”
“I have taken my time. I’m done with that nonsense.” He kisses me once, hard, his hand on the back of my neck. Then he pulls back. “Tell me what feels good. Tell me everything. I want to hear it all. I want to rock your world.”
His mouth moves across my hip bone. His hand slides from my thigh upward, over my stomach, and my abs contract under his fingers. His hand on my stomach is fire. His hand on my thigh is a candle behind frosted glass. But the candle is lit. And it’s brighter than it was an hour ago.
He looks down at my soft cock where his hand hovers.
“Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
His hand wraps around me. I close my eyes and wait. The sensation arrives like a tide coming in. Pressure first, then warmth, then something closer to the old electricity, dimmed but unmistakable.
“Mickey.” Benji’s voice breaks on my name. “Oh my God. Your dick is getting hard. You told me your dick was dead.”
I let out a laugh. “It was dead. If anyone can bring a dead dick back to life it’s you, Benji.”
“How long have you known? When did this start?”
“The night you showed me your rainfall shower. Watching you in the shower lit me on fire. Everywhere.”
He glances up at me, stunned. “I can’t believe this. I’m shocked. You didn’t tell me! Can I use my mouth?” The words come out rushed. “Mickey. Please. My God! I want — can I —”
“Yes, you can do whatever you want.”
He slides down my body. His mouth traces a path from my chest to my stomach, each kiss open-mouthed and hot. He settles between my legs. His hands on the inside of my thighs. He looks up at me one more time. His eyes asking. His mouth already close enough that I can feel his breath.
“Tell me if you feel it,” he says. “What you feel or if you don’t. Keep talking to me.”
He lowers his head. His lips brush the inside of my thigh first. A kiss, open-mouthed, warm, and the sensation registers — blurred, but there.
He kisses higher. Another inch. Another.
His mouth tracing a line up my inner thigh that I can track by the heat it leaves behind, each kiss a point of warmth that blooms and fades and is replaced by the next.
His breath hits my cock first. Hot and close. Then his mouth. His lips close over the head. Careful. Testing. Heat spreading outward from the point of contact, and my hands grip the sheets.
Oh, my God.
I can feel Benji’s mouth on my cock.
“I feel you,” I say. “Benji. I feel your mouth around me. Your mouth feels amazing. The best thing I’ve ever felt.”
He chokes out a groan or a sob, muffled against my skin, and the vibration adds a new frequency to the sensation.
He takes me deeper. His lips slide down the shaft, the wet heat of his mouth enveloping me inch by inch, and his tongue presses flat against the underside and drags.
His hand wraps around the base, his fingers firm, and the combination of his fist and his mouth working together makes my stomach clench.
He pulls back. His lips tight around the shaft, dragging, and when he reaches the head, his tongue circles the tip in a leisurely pass that punches a sound out of me.
“There,” I manage. “Fuck. Whatever you’re doing right there.”
His tongue teases that spot — circling, pressing, the flat of his tongue and then the tip of it alternating in a pattern he’s building, learning what my body answers to.
“This okay?” He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still close enough that I feel the words against my skin.
“God, yes — don’t stop.” I’m wrecked already and he’s barely started.
He takes me deep again. His lips slide all the way down and his hand moves to my thigh, gripping, his fingers pressing into the skin there.
“Benji.” His name comes out of me ragged. “Your mouth. Jesus Christ.”
He looks up at me without pulling off. His eyes find mine. They’re wet and blazing. His cheeks are hollowed, his lips are stretched around me.
He finds a rhythm and locks into it. His mouth and his hand working together, the pull of his lips up the shaft and the squeeze of his fist at the base, with his tongue doing something amazing on every upstroke.
The chain is hanging against his chest, swinging slightly with the rhythm of his head, and the image sears itself into my brain.
My hand finds his hair and grips. The strands are damp with sweat and soft between my fingers. I hold on and he moans around me. The vibration of it travels through my cock and up into my spine.
“Benji.”
His name is the only word my brain has left.
The sensation builds. A long, gradual climb, each pass of his mouth stacking another layer onto the one below it. His pace doesn’t change. He’s reading every sound I make, every shift of my hips, every tightening of my hand in his hair.
“I’m gonna come.” The words feel impossible. “Benji. I think I’m —”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t change a thing. His eyes close and he gives me everything.
It crests. A deep, rolling pulse that starts where his mouth is and radiates outward through every part of me that can carry it. My fingers fist his hair. He stays on me through every wave. His mouth gentle now, easing me down.
I lie there against the headboard with my chest heaving and the aftershocks moving through me in diminishing waves.
Benji has his cheek pressed against my hip.
His breath is warm on my skin. His hand is resting on my stomach, his thumb making small absent circles, and he’s not rushing me. He’s just there. Letting me come back.
I run my fingers through his hair. The strands are damp and tangled. He makes a small sound when my nails drag across his scalp.
“Come back up here,” I say.
Benji crawls up my body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my stomach, ribs, and chest. He’s compact but perfectly proportioned — lean and toned. His messy white-blonde hair falls into his eyes as he moves.
He settles on top of me, straddling my hips. His hard cock rests against my stomach, hot and heavy, already leaking steadily and leaving shiny trails of precum across my skin.
That ends now. Tonight isn’t just about me.
“Your turn,” I tell him.
“Mickey, you don’t have to— tonight was about you. I’m fine, I—”
“You’re shaking.” I pull him down into a deep kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. “Let me touch you. Sit up so I can see you better.”
He sits up with his hands on my sides. My hand slides down from his chest. Across the planes of muscle, over each rib, the lean hard surface of him contracting under my fingers.
I reach his stomach and press flat and feel the muscles tighten.
His stomach is taut and the faint trail of blonde hair below his navel is soft under my fingertips. I follow it down.
He holds his breath. His whole body goes rigid with anticipation. I can feel it coiling through him — the tension in his stomach, the way his thighs are gripping my sides.
My fingers reach the base of his cock. I don’t wrap my hand around him yet. I trace the length of him with my fingertips. Light. Barely a touch. From the base up the shaft to the head and back down, my fingers trailing over the hot smooth skin.
“Damn, Mickey,” he groans.
“There it is,” I say. “That’s the sound I remember. Tell me what you want.”
“Your hand on me. I think about your grip and the way you —” His voice breaks. “Touch me. Please. I can’t — I need —”
I wrap my fingers around his cock. He’s beautifully hard — big for his lean frame, flushed dark at the head, with a slight upward curve. A fresh bead of precum wells at the tip and drips down the shaft. I rub it with my thumb.
“Spit in my hand,” I murmur.
Benji leans forward and spits into my palm twice. I spread it over his cock, mixing it with his leaking precum until everything is slick and shiny.
The first full stroke pulls a broken moan from his throat.
“Fuck…”
I stroke him, loving the weight and heat of him. His cock is perfect in my fist — silky skin stretched tight over hardness, the head swollen and sensitive. Every time I twist my wrist over the tip, more precum leaks out, making the glide wetter.
“I love how you feel in my hand,” I say against his mouth. “So thick and hard for me. You’re dripping everywhere.”
Benji’s lean body rolls above me as his hips push forward. His toned stomach flexes with every movement, the faint lines of his abs visible under tanned skin. His face is flushed with pleasure — full lips parted, long lashes fluttering.
I hold him straddling my hips. My hand pumps him with long, firm strokes, thumb pressing and circling over the slick head on every upstroke. His cock throbs visibly in my grip, the veins standing out as more precum drips down over my fingers.
“God, look at you,” I murmur, unable to take my eyes off him. “So goddamn pretty like this.”
His head falls forward, forehead pressed to mine. I tighten my grip and speed up slightly, stroking him while my other hand runs over his narrow waist and hips.
“Mickey— your hand feels so good,” he gasps.
His thighs shake on either side of my hips as he gets closer.
He’s slick and hot and every pass of my thumb spreads the moisture down the shaft and the next stroke is smoother, wetter, and his body responds to the change with a full-body shudder.
His hips are moving, pushing into my fist on every downstroke, a rhythm building between us that’s half his body and half my hand.
I slow down, my hand dragging to a crawl, my grip loosening, and the noise he makes is outraged.
“No. No no no. Don’t slow down. Mickey, don’t you dare —”
“What do you want?”
“Faster. Tighter. I need — I need you to —”
“Like this?” I tighten my grip and pick up the pace. My fist moving in quick, firm strokes, my thumb catching the head on every pass. Both of his hands dig into my shoulders.
“Yes. Yes. Like that. Exactly like — oh God.”
I keep that pace and tighten my grip one more degree. My fist moving fast and firm, my wrist turning, my thumb working the head on every pass.
“I’ve got you,” I tell him. “Let go for me, beautiful.”
“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
His lean body locks up completely, every toned muscle going rigid at once. His back arches sharply, hips stuttering forward into my fist as a raw, shattered moan tears from his throat. Then he comes hard.
Cum spurts across my chest in powerful pulses.
I keep stroking him through it, drawing out every wave.
When he softens, I ease my hand off him, pressing my palm flat against his stomach.
His chest heaves under my touch as the tremors move through him until they settle into nothing but heavy breathing.
Benji turns his face toward me. His eyes are open, lips parted and swollen. He leans down and kisses me — deep and lingering.
After a long moment, he pulls back with a soft smile. He climbs off me and pads toward the bathroom, giving me a view of his lean, naked body. The bathroom faucet runs for a minute before he returns with a warm, damp washcloth.
Without a word, he climbs back onto the bed and cleans me up. The cloth is soothing against my skin as he wipes away the cum from my chest and stomach with careful, tender strokes. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. “There,” he murmurs, pressing one last soft kiss to my shoulder. “All clean.”
“Stay with me,” I say.
“Of course.”
“No. I don’t mean tonight. I mean stay. Here in this town with me. Tex said there’s room and he’s right. There’s room. I want to be the place you come home to.”
He goes still against me. His breathing stops for one beat, then two. Then he lifts his head and looks at me in the dark.
“Are you asking me to move here?”
“I’m asking you to think about it. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow. But think about it. Because I’m lying in this bed and your head is on my chest. I feel your heartbeat against my ribs and I don’t want this to be a weekend. I want this to be every night.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He puts his head back on my chest and his hand moves from my stomach to my hip and rests there, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the bone.
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “But for the record, I started thinking about it the day Tex showed me the blueprint and said there’s room for you here too.”
“Tex told you that? When?”
“The day I came to see you in Jacksonville. I was standing on the unfinished floor of this room with the sawdust in the air and the blueprint on the wall. And he said that if I decided to give you a chance, there’s room for me here too.
Words that rewired my entire life. And now I’m lying here and you’re asking me to stay.
So yes, Mickey. I’ll think about it. But you should know that my thinking about it started a long time ago. ”
I press my lips to the top of his head. His hair smells like coconut shampoo and salt air. The combination shouldn’t work but it does, the way everything about Benji shouldn’t work but does.
Downstairs, the jukebox finally goes quiet. The bar is closing. I hear Tex’s heavy footsteps moving across the floor below us, the scrape of barstools being pushed in, the clatter of Sheila doing final wipe-down. The sounds of a building settling into the end of its night.
Benji’s weight is against my side. He falls asleep first. His breathing deepens and his hand goes slack on my hip. The weight of him gets heavier, sinking into me, trusting me.
One day, I’m going to walk again.
It might not be soon.
But it’ll happen.