Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
harrison
Taylor’s wavy hair spilled across my chest, his head resting on my right pec, slender fingers splayed across my stomach, and soft, warm breaths passing over my skin.
It woke me up quietly, almost like I had been diving deep all night, and finally reached the surface where the sun shone bright and warmth greeted me.
I didn’t move. He was so peaceful that I only wanted to make the moment last longer.
Some part of me recoiled in anticipation of what he would do when he opened his eyes.
Small as it was, this part of me was persistently reminding me that there was every chance Taylor would simply come to his senses now, in the light of day, and I wouldn’t survive the horrified look of regret in his eyes.
It wasn’t a small, unimportant thing. What happened last night was bound to change us for better or worse. This was no mere friendship any longer. I had to keep that in mind when he opened his eyes in a minute or two.
I looked down at his hand as it rose and fell with my stomach.
Beyond it, my dick lay on my abdomen, not entirely soft anymore.
The duvet was kicked down and twisted and coiled around Taylor’s feet, something that had never happened to me when sleeping alone.
He was a kicker, then. Oh, but he was gorgeous like this, his hip bone protruding from the side, his dick and balls hanging over his left side, short hair making a delicious backdrop, fading into his smooth thighs.
The sight alone made my dick harder. The memory of last night, of the sensation of having him inside me, of him coming while fucking me so passionately, made it only more difficult to focus on anything else and cool down a little.
I turned my head away, looking out the window while leaning a little in to bury my nose in his wild, wonderful hair.
It still held the scent of honey and almonds from last night’s late shower.
After coming down from the high of pure lust and erotic pleasure, we’d gone into my bathroom, and I’d kissed him again, no longer so desperate to assure myself that he was real and really there.
I’d kissed him under the pouring water, and we touched each other everywhere, not quickly or in need to turn each other on, but to feel.
To feel his skin on mine, to feel the searing press of his lips on my chest, to feel my fingers in his hair as I washed the sweat out of it.
I shifted a little, trying to get out from underneath Taylor, but his hand pressed me down harder. “Don’t you dare,” he said against my pec, his voice vibrating through me.
“I was going to make you coffee,” I said.
He thought about it, eyes still closed and breathing steadily. Then, after reaching a decision, he loosened his hold on me. “Fine. It’s the only reason I’d let you get out of bed.”
I kissed the top of his head because the need to do just that overwhelmed any sense of restraint in me.
He wasn’t running away. He wasn’t freaking out.
Yet. Maybe a shot of espresso will finally wake him up enough to realize what a mistake he’d made sleeping with a guy.
Or maybe it wouldn’t. Whatever the outcome, I needed to know.
After kissing him, I got out of bed and strolled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, splashed my face with cold water, and returned to the bedroom.
As I searched through my drawer for a clean pair of underwear, I turned to look at Taylor, lying in the warm space where I had just been, naked and inviting.
But no. I wanted to make him feel good in more ways than one, even if it would just be a thank-you for last night.
“There are spare toothbrushes in the top drawer under the sink,” I said.
Taylor lifted a thumb, then dropped his arm back on the bed, pulling the pillow closer as if to make me jealous that I was missing out on cuddles. It worked, damn him.
Smiling to myself, I left Taylor naked in the bed, cuddling a pillow, and looked through the cabinets in my kitchen.
He was quick to follow, wearing only my sweatpants that had been left on the living room floor, his eyelashes wet after he’d washed his face, and a tiny bit of toothpaste left in the corner of his lips.
I grabbed a napkin and brought it to his face, wiping the corner of his mouth while he grinned. “That’s how I deserve to be treated.”
“Like a hyperactive toddler,” I said.
“In need of coffee,” he said.
I opened a can of roasted coffee beans and poured some into a manual burr grinder while Taylor sat at the dining table and folded his arms on its surface. He watched me with interest as I leaned against the kitchen counter and began to grind the beans.
“Do you do this every morning?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
He smiled and nodded. “And maybe you just do it to impress a date the morning after. It flexes your biceps.”
“It’s mostly forearm work, really,” I said.
I ground the coffee while Taylor shamelessly drooled at the sight of my arms. Maybe I flexed them a little.
Maybe I liked it when a boy liked me and wasn’t ashamed of it.
It had been a long time since anyone was so liberal with liking me, with obsessing over me, with worshiping every inch of me the way Taylor had in the last twelve hours.
And if that was all I took away with me from last night, then it was worth every effort and every pain that might follow.
It healed me. It repaired something broken and clanky inside of me. Wound and tightened something that had gone loose with neglect.
“What now?” Taylor asked innocently, eyes big like a child’s, absorbed in my work.
I set down the grinder and opened the container, where a coarse coffee powder had already released its aromatic scent.
Elsewhere on the counter, I poured hot water into the bottom part of my pastel mint moka pot.
I narrated in a soothing voice as I filled the basket with coffee, tapped it gently against the counter, and put the pot together.
Then I lit the gas stove and set it to low heat, placing the coffee pot over the flames and waiting for the rich brown liquid to well up the tip and spill into the container.
“It’s a delicate process,” I told Taylor.
“You can easily burn your coffee and end up with a very bitter and sour flavor. Or you can speed it up and have a weak coffee as your punishment.”
“I like listening to you,” Taylor said. “But I’m never going to learn this.”
“You don’t need to,” I said. “I like making coffee for both of us.” Then it dawned on me that Taylor was the type of person who happily carried around filtered coffee, probably programmed to brew before he even opened his eyes. That was what he meant, right? That he had a simpler method.
I didn’t look at him after my lapse. Instead, I watched the coffee pour down and into the pot until it turned golden, then pale yellow, and I removed the entire moka pot from the heat to avoid it spitting everywhere and ruining the flavor besides spraying my tiles with coffee stains.
I stirred it, poured it into small espresso cups, and served us at the dining table, where the morning sun made Taylor’s warm olive skin glow. “Go on,” I said. “Try that.”
With a look of pure skepticism, Taylor lifted the cup, sniffed the coffee inside it, and held my gaze questioningly until he tasted my brew.
He placed the cup on the table, then leaned all the way back and let his head hang.
He let out a deep groan of pleasure, not unlike when he had come all over us the second time last night.
“Fuck. Me.” He lifted his head and looked at me.
“And I’ve been drinking that watery slop all my life. ”
“Good things take time and effort.”
“I hate you for ruining coffee,” he replied, then drank some more.
“Maybe I can make it up to you,” I said, ignoring my coffee. Suddenly, it wasn’t nearly as appetizing as what my mind was able to conjure up.
“And how could you possibly do that?” he asked, holding my gaze steadily, daringly.
I moved from my chair and planted my hands on the armrests of Taylor’s, leaning down and kissing him deeply. He tasted like coffee, and I kissed him harder.
Whispering against his lips, I asked, “When do you have to go?”
I could feel his smile against my mouth as he kissed me back. “I have an hour or so.”
“Perfect,” I said in my most seductive voice, then pulled away from him. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
His bewildered look was endearing. “Is that it?”
But I was just messing with him. Glancing down, I found what I was hoping to see. He was hard already, so I lowered myself to my knees and pressed my lips against his chest, kissing his smooth, warm skin all the way between his pecs and down the center of his abs.
Taylor’s breath grew shallower as I descended to the waistband of my sweatpants he was wearing, and he throbbed hard when my chin touched his hard cock.
I hooked my fingers under his waistband and lifted it.
He only wore the sweatpants, which made my heart trip a little.
His dick sprang as I pulled the sweatpants down his thighs.
They fell down to his ankles, and by then, my hand was already around his dick, stroking him gently and reveling in the tension I felt there.
He was so hard and eager that it made my chest hurt.
I leaned down, bringing my lips to the base of his cock, and licked his length slowly all the way to the tip before lifting my gaze to meet his eyes. He was already dazed and drawing deep breaths.
“Spit on it,” I said.
His eyes widened for a flash. He measured me, checking if he’d heard me right, and then the corners of his lips lifted a little, and he worked spit into his mouth, leaned forward, and spat on the tip of his dick.