25. Malcolm
MALCOLM
R yan swallows my load and looks up at me. “Why do you keep apologizing?”
“I don’t know,” I pant, collapsing onto my back.
“I liked it better when you just said I love you on a loop.”
“I think I just…” Fuck knows what I’m thinking. He just sucked out my brain cells. “I’m sorry.”
He chuckles. “Stop.”
He crawls onto the sex chair—aka the beanbag—with me and presses his erection against my hip.
While I catch my breath, he messes with my nipples.
Stroking and squeezing them, watching them blanch and then redden up again, all the while getting more and more swollen.
I’m a shivering mess—I think I might still be coming.
“Seriously,” he says, finally laying off my nipples and resting his chin on my shoulder. “What are you sorry about?”
“I figure—I don’t know…you don’t wish I could go more than once a day?”
“Go?”
“Take your dick? ”
“You have,” he reminds me.
“Twice,” I remind him .
He wipes some sweat from my brow and runs his hand over my hair. “I got the impression that position from earlier wasn’t exactly good for you.”
“It wasn’t bad ,” I argue.
“Harder then.”
It was actually harder. Taking his huge cock while I was leaning over the sink in the unisex was a new kind of uncomfortable.
“You can always tell me to stop or change it up,” he says.
“I didn’t want you to stop. I came, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. You did.”
Thinking of it now—watching Ryan watch me in the mirror, his hand over my mouth to muffle my noises while I was red-faced and in perfect agony put me over the edge.
It was only my second time coming completely untouched—nothing but air on my dick—and the first time had been a second orgasm.
This one was ridiculous. Annihilating. I’d come everywhere, and Ryan had to clean it up because I was a useless wreck afterward.
“I ordered a butt plug,” I say.
He laughs again. “What the fuck?”
“I want you to be able to fuck me anywhere, anytime without worrying about it.”
“And you think that’ll help?”
“I do,” I say.
“I don’t need to fuck constantly. That’s you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, aware I’m still apologizing. “I know. But it’d be like our secret. Something only you and I know. And I like knowing you’re thinking about me.”
“Mal…there hasn’t been a single day since I met you that I haven’t thought about you multiple times. ”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Is that a bad thing or a good thing.”
“It’s just a thing. About me. I think about you a lot.”
“I think about you constantly,” I confess. “I’m useless for how much I think about you.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“You think I don’t?”
“I mean…I wonder.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I say. “The only reason I’m not texting you constantly is because I’m trying to show some restraint. There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t wanted to talk to you. And I’m not just talking about this summer.”
“I needed to hear that,” he whispers.
“It’s true. It’s worse now, though,” I admit. “I want you. I worry. I feel like such a mess.”
Ryan sighs and digs his forehead into my shoulder, his fingertips returning to circle my right nipple. “I’ve always liked your mess, so don’t worry about that.”
I try to smile. “Okay.”
“I know work’s sucked for you this week, but are you excited about the podcast?”
We’re filming our first episode tomorrow at Miguel’s. Our plan is solid, mostly introductory. Bailey and Miguel scripted the talking points, the intros and outros. We get to keep our shirts on.
With Kaylin coming home Wednesday, I’m going to need to start phasing Stephanie out.
I’ve been thinking about getting another dog, but I’m also sort of preemptively mourning the loss of my bond with Stephanie.
She’s grown on me these last few weeks. I understand her better now that I have an obsession of my own I’m constantly tracking and missing when he’s not in my sight.
I’ve been good about not bringing up Ryan’s plans for after the internship.
We have about a month left, and maybe that seems far off for him, but to me, it feels like tomorrow.
For my part, because I’ve had a less than stellar experience working at Marks & Baker, I don’t think I’m likely to be offered a job no matter how the challenge turns out, and if I were, I’m not likely to take it, which leaves me at yet another loss as to what comes next for me.
I’m all out of ideas. Although, if Ryan’s gone, what difference will it make whether I hate my job or not? What difference would anything make?
When I said that to Andrea yesterday, she pounced all over it, wanting to know if I was taking my meds or having any thoughts of harming myself.
I gave her two truths and a lie. Yes, I’m taking my meds. No, I’m not thinking of harming myself. I’m fine .
Still, I am looking forward to the podcast, so I tell him yes. “It should be fun.”
“It will be,” he says. “Now be a good friend.” He takes my hand off my own leg and puts it on the bulge in his sweats.
I feel like I should apologize again for neglecting his needs, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
As soon as I’ve got my hand in his pants, he’s kissing me and fucking my fist, precum the only lube, and it’s not all that good for jerking someone off.
He doesn’t seem to care. He keeps molesting my nipples and licking into my mouth like all is right in his world, and then he comes with a jolt and a soft series of groans against my lips.
It’s all so stupidly hot, I’ve got another semi thickening in my lap. Fuck, I can’t get enough of him. I need to figure this shit out or he and his Seattle lady friend are going to wind up with an unwanted roommate with a severe clinging problem. Hope she’s cool with sharing.
Ugh. I twist away from him and struggle my way out of the beanbag chair, bracing myself for a cold shower .
I should just ask him. I have three questions I need answers to, and I just need to ask them and get it over with. 1. Are you in love with me? 2. Are you leaving me? 3. Can we still be together no matter what?
The problem is the wrong answer to any one of those questions would nuke me.
I’m not expecting him to join me in the shower, so I don’t bother to lock the door, but he’s a minute behind me. “What?” I ask when he pulls the curtain shut.
“I just came in my pants.”
“Right.” I turn my back on him and let the cool water soak my face.
“It’s cold. Shit.” He wraps his arms around me from behind and I look down at all those tattoos crossed over my midsection.
He’s so goddamn gorgeous. So fucking sexy.
Strong and contained and smart. I never used to think of us as opposites until we were in high school when I did everything I could to differentiate myself from him.
And I guess it worked.
“I love you, Mal,” he says against my ear. His mouth there sends another wave of chills over me.
“I know,” I sigh.
“No,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “I mean, I’m like—completely in love with you.”
My hands fly up, locking onto his wrists. “Is that…did you?”
“Sound familiar?”
“Are you fucking with me? Now ?”
“I’m not fucking with you. And I’m not doped up either.”
“I mean, you just came…”
“How long after I come do I need to wait to talk to you then?” he asks.
“You don’t. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to say that. Those particular words. ”
“Hope it’s not a trigger or anything.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Definitely not. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to hear you say it again.” And I’ve needed to hear it more than I could possibly convey.
He presses a soft kiss to the base of my neck. “There you go.”
“I’ll handle it much better this time. I swear to God.”
“I know.”
He knows? Does that mean he trusts me?
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It’s literal,” he says with a distinct smile in his voice. “It defines itself.”
I wish that were true for anything with me, but maybe I won’t press my luck right this second.
I have one of my answers at least. It’s not the heaviest, but a weight lifts nonetheless.
I let his wrists go and turn in the circle of his arms. He looks into my eyes, the soft smile still on his face.
I return it, pushing his half wet hair away from his beautiful eyes.
The look in them is all-encompassing—like there’s no part of me he can’t see. I’m still over here searching his, but the love is there—written plainly and perfectly.
A line forms between his brows after a moment. “Jesus, you’re hard.”
“Ignore it,” I say, slamming my mouth to his. He backs up a step, but in the next second, he’s got me pinned against the wall, his thigh between my legs and his mouth hot on mine.
I have mixed feelings about the butt plug. Girth-wise, it’s about half the size of Ryan, which was what I was going for, so I’m happy with that. I already had a near constant awareness of my asshole, so it’s not like having it half stuffed makes me all that much more preoccupied by it.
Anyway, I’ve got the plug in while Ryan and I are running our separate Saturday errands before we’re scheduled to meet at Miguel’s. I wasn’t counting on it arousing me.
I guess I was thinking of it like a shoe tree.
Something I could stick in there to keep me propped open so when Ryan wanted in—or I beg Ryan in, my hole would be more resilient.
The plug isn’t big enough to stimulate my prostate—at least not while I’m upright.
When I’m sitting however—like I have to while I’m getting my hair cut—all I can think about is how badly I need to get off.
I calculate how long the walk to my apartment is as I get harder and more desperate.
I don’t make it any farther than the barbershop bathroom. The good news is I come fast. The bad news is I can’t look anyone in the eyes on the way out because I do think I made a loud enough noise when I came that I embarrassed myself.
Such a good orgasm, though. Best solo work I’ve ever done.