Chapter 1 #2
What the hell?
“You live here?” I squeak, forgetting my Yoda persona in my surprise.
He gives me a curious look. “Yeah, this is my apartment building.”
Okay, so that isn’t the greatest fact of the evening because this is also my apartment building. The one I moved into exactly one week ago. The universe is either trying to tell me something or laughing at me.
Possibly both.
Shit.
As I follow him out of the Uber, my mind is spinning.
Should I tell him I live here too? Will that be a dealbreaker? What’s the expected etiquette in this situation?
Unfortunately, it turns out it’s not just the apartment building we have in common. Darth Vader leads the way to the second floor, which is also the floor my apartment is located on.
And suddenly, I know exactly who he is.
Cute guy in Apartment 2C. No wonder he looked slightly familiar.
I only caught a glimpse of him when I was moving in, but I’d nearly dropped the box I was holding. I’d been hoping to run into him again sometime in the hallway, but so far, it hadn’t happened.
My stomach curdles. If I say who I am, he’ll work out what I really look like. And that might end things before they begin.
My conscience and my cock have an epic war for control of my mouth.
My cock wins.
I’m prepared to take discomfort in the hallway if it means I get off now. If it means I get to have this, someone touching me in desire, just for one night.
I can sadly calculate exactly how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. Because my lovely ex Carlos decided to leave me on my birthday, January first.
It turns out that leaving me was a New Year’s resolution he was determined to keep.
Previously, the end of a relationship wouldn’t have meant a sudden cessation in my sex life. But it did this time.
I’m not thinking about that now though.
Tonight is for forgetting about the accident, forgetting the months of recovery, forgetting that my face under the paint tells a story I never asked to be part of.
And as soon as we’re inside Darth Vader’s apartment, the time for confessions has passed.
Because he presses me against the door and kisses me.
Holy shit, this kiss. It’s the holy grail of kisses. A kiss that makes me forget I’m dressed as a nine-hundred-year-old swamp goblin. A kiss that’s apparently rewriting my entire nervous system’s operating manual.
His tongue glides along mine in the best slide in the history of sliding. You know, if there were a history of tongue sliding, which there very much should be.
He doesn’t seem worried about the transfer of face paint. In fact, he kisses me with complete abandonment, as if the fact that I’m going to potentially turn his face into a Shrek tribute is actually part of my appeal.
I fumble for his belt because nothing says sexy like struggling with costume accessories while trying not to break a kiss.
Eventually, I’m forced to break away panting so I can use two hands.
“Nine hundred years old I am. Learned a few things about lightsaber handling, I have,” I say as I finally triumph over his belt thingy.
He laughs, and although it still sounds like Darth Vader, there’s something warm about his laughter. Like he’s been storing sunshine somewhere beneath all that black leather and menace.
“I can’t wait to see your lightsaber technique,” he says breathlessly. Although breathlessness is probably Darth Vader’s signature sound, come to think of it.
How sad is it that I’ve forgotten how much fun sex with another person is? No offense to my right hand, but it really doesn’t have quite the prowess of Darth Vader’s as he pulls up my robes and shows me that evil empires clearly invest in advanced training for all kinds of infiltration techniques.
Within seconds, he’s got his hand inside my boxers, wrapping his fingers around me with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s practiced this particular Force grip before.
“Bed,” I gasp.
His apartment is laid out like mine, so it’s a short distance to his bedroom. His bed’s made with military precision, which feels weirdly appropriate for Darth Vader.
We start kissing again as we stumble toward the bed, and he manages to untangle me from my Jedi robes without breaking contact.
It’s like watching a magic trick—if magicians were really into heavy breathing and grinding.
His Darth Vader chest plate hits the floor with a thunk, along with his voice synthesizer.
Which means I’m not going to hear Darth Vader’s breathy tones anymore, and I have to admit I’m slightly disappointed.
My sexual preferences now include evil space dictator voice, and I’m just going to have to live with that information about myself.
We’re kissing between every piece of clothing that comes off, messy and desperate, and when his hands finally touch my bare skin, I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.
My eyes prickle because, apparently, part of me doubted I’d ever have this again, that someone would ever want to touch me like this, with hunger instead of hesitation. He pushes me back on the bed, his gorgeous body blanketing mine.
And I’m reminded about exactly how good it feels when two naked bodies press against each other.
Every place he touches feels like it’s been asleep for months and is suddenly, violently awake. His fingers trace along my hip bone as his tongue follows the line of my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine.
And I can’t stop myself from touching him in return. His body is incredible, all hard planes and warm skin, muscles shifting under my palms as he moves.
Somehow, this is one of the hottest experiences of my life.
What the hell is making it so great? Maybe it’s because the costumes give us permission to be different people, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m just so relieved this is actually happening.
Or maybe he’s just really, really good at sex.
Whatever it is, there’s something freeing about being wanted by someone who doesn’t know about the baggage I carry.
He discovers my nipples are my weakness and proceeds to exploit this information mercilessly.
First with his fingers, light touches that make me squirm, then his tongue circling slowly while I grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
By the time he adds teeth into the mix, just the slightest pressure, I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten my own name.
“The Force is particularly strong here,” he mutters hoarsely against my chest, and I would laugh except I can’t breathe properly.
He retrieves lube and condoms, and even while he’s prepping me, he speaks in whispers that still sound vaguely like Darth Vader, and I whisper back nonsense that’s half Star Wars references and half begging, a combination that shouldn’t be hot but apparently is based on the heat in his eyes.
I’m so desperate, needy, chasing the pressure that his fingers tease me with.
“I’m ready.”
He responds by withdrawing his fingers gently and then flipping me over like I weigh nothing. Suddenly, I’m on my stomach with his weight pressing me into the mattress in the best possible way.
My eyes sting when he starts to enter me.
It’s not due to the minor burn of pain because let’s face it, my body is out of practice doing this.
It’s because all the feelings are suddenly overwhelming me, his breath on the back of my neck, the way he’s edging inside with this perfect combination of restraint and urgency, and the sheer relief that my body still knows how to do this, still knows how to feel good.
“Okay?” he rasps.
“Never better,” I manage to say back in a choked-up voice.
But then we’re not really saying much, besides my extremely creative variations on “oh god” and “please” and his name, which I still don’t actually know, so I just keep calling him Vader, which he seems to find hilarious between groans.
He fills me and stretches me so exquisitely. Every thrust lights me up from the inside, like those glow sticks you crack at concerts.
Except instead of lasting three hours, I’m about to last three more seconds if he keeps hitting that exact spot.
“Oh yeah, Vader, keep doing that,” is not something I ever thought I’d find myself saying, but never say never.
He rocks back, pulling me into a position where he can easily get a hand to stroke my cock with the same tempo he’s thrusting inside me.
It’s too much, the combined sensations making my brain short-circuit like I’ve stuck a fork in a toaster, except instead of electrocution, I’m getting the good kind of destroyed.
My orgasm hits like I’ve been shot out of hyperdrive, everything blurring and bright. I’m pretty sure I say something embarrassing about the Force, but he’s too busy following me over the edge to judge me, his whole body shuddering as he erupts inside me.
Then he gently pulls out of me, and we’re just two idiots smeared in costume paint, trying to remember how breathing works.
“Wow,” I say, and he smiles.
And then he pulls me to him. My face presses against his incredible chest with a smattering of sexy hair that rasps against my cheek.
I listen to his heart thudding and realize mine is matching his beat for beat. Like they’re having their own little conversation about what just happened.
God, it’s so nice to be held like this. So nice to have the warmth of someone’s arms around me, the simple miracle of skin against skin without any agenda except being close.
I tilt my head up to look at him. He really has been Yoda-fied, with green paint streaked across his jaw like some kind of alien hickey.
I reach up to try and wipe it off, but he captures my hand and leans down to kiss me.
And then we’re kissing again, slow and lazy this time, tangled up in each other, not in a particularly sexy way but in a “we’re both too blissed out to figure out whose leg goes where” way.
Making out after sex? Not my normal experience, but I am so here for it.
And okay, we haven’t even exchanged names, but I love the fact that kissing him is starting to feel familiar.
I’ve always loved kissing. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed someone who enjoys it as much as I do, who doesn’t treat it like an obligatory pre-game activity, but like it’s the whole point sometimes.
Luckily for me, this guy seems to be equally obsessed with it, varying between soft and teasing to deep and consuming.
It’s like he’s conducting his own personal study on exactly what makes me gasp.
I get so into the kissing that, despite the epic orgasm I just had, my cock rallies. It’s decided that one mind-blowing orgasm isn’t enough for the evening.
But Vader doesn’t seem to interpret my half-hard cock against him as an insult to the quality of the orgasm he just gave me. Instead, he seems to take it as a challenge because he breaks off kissing me to shuffle down my body to my groin.
Oh my god, is he going to…?
It appears he is.
His mouth is gentle and teasing, treating my cock like I’m some kind of gourmet meal he’s been waiting months to try.
One of his hands strokes the sensitive skin behind my balls, then reaches farther back to tease my hole.
Oh, holy fuck, it feels incredible. My cock is now definitely into this unexpected second act, having decided rest is for quitters.
He groans as I harden further in his mouth, which shouldn’t be physically possible, but apparently my body has decided to break the laws of physics tonight.
He continues to work me over in what has to be the best oral action of my life, somehow seeming to know exactly the right pressure and rhythm to drive me absolutely insane.
The combination of the warm heat of his mouth and the gentle touch of his fingers makes my hips buck involuntarily, torn between pushing into his mouth and pressing back against his fingers. My body’s trying to be in two places at once.
This time when I come, it feels different from the first time, slower and deeper. My orgasm is like sinking into a warm bath after being cold for months. Or like finding out there’s a sequel to your favorite movie that’s even better than the original.
Unfortunately, it appears my brain can’t handle two incredible orgasms in the space of such a short time.
Because before I can even think about how to return the favor, my eyelids are drooping. I’m fighting a losing battle against the kind of exhaustion that only comes from really, really good sex after months of really, really bad sleep.
I don’t even have a chance to summon the words to check that he’s okay with me crashing here. Instead, I slip into the sleep of someone who just had their brains fucked and then sucked out of them.
The last thing I register is Darth Vader pulling the blanket over me and pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Or maybe I’m already dreaming.
When I stir again, it’s morning. Unfortunately, it appears Darth Vader doesn’t invest in blackout curtains, so the room is filled with bright, unforgiving daylight.
Shit.
Warm arms are still around me, heavy and comfortable, his breath warm and steady against my neck.
For a moment, I let myself pretend this is my life, waking up with someone who wants me here, before reality does its usual morning tap dance on my chest.
I slowly extract myself, then turn over to study him.
He’s gorgeous. But then I already knew that, having totally perved on him when I saw him in the hallway.
Gorgeous and gay, my two favorite things in a man.
I flop back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
What was I hoping for here? That the sex would be so spectacular that he’d want a repeat despite what he’s going to see when he wakes up?
And the problem is, the sex was spectacular. So the fact that he won’t want it again is going to devastate me. Because it’ll reinforce that even an insanely hot sexual connection won’t make a guy overlook my face.
My therapist’s words about not assuming the worst in people slide into my head.
It appears Annie still has some work to do.
An arm comes out to wrap around me, and he draws me close, back into the warm cocoon of his arms.
He’s such a cuddler. Another trait I love in a man.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I squeak.
“Do you feel like some breakfast?” His deep rumbling voice makes my hair stand on end.
It’s a voice that sounds as rich and decadent as chocolate cake.
I freeze.
And for the second time in twelve hours, recognition shoots through me. But this time, it’s a different, deeper recognition. Because his voice has haunted my dreams for the last year.
“Oh my god, it’s you,” I say.