Chapter 39
Lennon
“Shit,” I mumble into his hair. “Do you know what day it is?”
We’re still on the roof, and we’ve been here for so long that I can’t remember when we got here. What day, what week, what year. The only thing I know for sure is that I like kissing Connor, and I like how he feels in my arms.
He’s backed up against the railing, and behind him, I note that the sun has risen well above the horizon. The sky is bright blue, the morning clear and set in. It worries me in a distant sort of way.
“It’s Thursday,” he tells me.
Reality comes rushing at me. “Thursday!? Oh Jesus! I’m late for work.”
Thankfully, work is great. The students are lovely. Anna is lovely. Bev is lovely. Blake is lovely adjacent.
I think I’ve gotten used to working in the housing department because it’s honestly not nearly as bad as it used to be.
As far as work goes, it’s not too bad. The only bad thing about it is that time has broken.
I don’t think the housing department can be blamed for that, though, so I’m not mad about it.
Feels like more of an external issue than an internal one.
Probably more of a university-at-large thing than the fault of a particular department.
It’s weird. Time stopped moving completely this morning and then sped up really fast around midday for a while. It’s four p.m. now, and it has been for at least two or three days.
It’s fine. I’m using the time to reread messages Connor has sent me over the past few weeks, and that’s a super worthwhile activity.
“You okay, hun?” Bev asks.
“Oh yes,” I reply, and for the first time in a while, I’m pretty sure I mean it.
I take a break from my message rereading and do a bit of clock-watching instead.
Variety is the spice of life and all that.
The minute dial ticks over, and a party breaks out in my nervous system. There’s a distinct flutter under my skin that would be of grave concern if I didn’t know for sure that Connor was the cause.
Same goes for the spasming drum in my chest. And the quiver in my belly.
Not to mention the rock-hard erection in my pants.
I’ve replayed what happened this morning so many times that I can no longer remember how to stop smiling, or why anyone would bother to try. Bev and Anna are shooting concerned glances over my head, and I don’t mind that either. It’s actually very nice of them. Shows they care.
The only thing I mind is the broken time situation, but I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about that. I’m pretty sure it’s above my pay grade. The only thing to do is to take a leaf from Connor’s playbook and breathe through it.
By the time Bev snaps her blind shut and says, “Don’t stay too late,” I’ve lived several lifetimes and all of them have brought me to this time and place.
I wouldn’t say I’m anywhere near as Zen as Connor is, but I’m a hell of a lot more centered than I’ve been for a while.
I pack up and log off faster than Bev does, and that’s quite the achievement. No one, not even Blake, has achieved such a feat. I’ll celebrate later, though, because right now, there’s only one thing I have to do. Only one thing that matters—I’m going home.
My bag bumps against my hip as I take the stairs two at a time. My keys are in my hand, a slight tremor quaking my fingers as I unlock the door. I can hardly contain myself. I’ve waited as long as I possibly can to see Connor. No, longer. I’ve waited longer than I can wait.
The bolt slides free and I shove the door with excessive force. It flies open and crashes into the wall, and there he is.
There’s Connor. Standing in the living room. His hands hang loosely at his sides and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he sees me.
His smile says you’re home and his eyes say much more. They speak in full sentences, telling me things other people would try to keep secret. They say I missed you, and that was hard. They say you were gone for so long, and I hated being without you.
I pull my bag off my shoulder, letting it drop onto the floor, and the keys slip from my fingers. I kick the front door closed behind me, eyes not leaving his, and close the ache between us in four long strides.
My body closes in on his, and suddenly, he’s everywhere.
He’s in front of me, so close his features blur.
I move closer and closer still, until his back meets the shelves behind him.
My hands find their way to his cheeks. To his face.
His sweet, perfect face. His lips tug at the corners as I lean in and cover them with my own.
His lips part on contact, and I groan in relief as I press my body against his and my tongue into his mouth.
This is coming home. This is what coming home was always meant to be like, and what it should be like in the future.
Soft lips. Soft smiles. Soft kisses that melt and split open.
Lips parting as I lick into his mouth. Broad, deep sweeps of tongues.
Broader and deeper than anything we did this morning.
It’s a kiss that sends a current down my body, all the way to my feet and then back up again.
It’s a kiss that feels good. Staggeringly good.
Breathtakingly good. So good that I don’t know how I ever lived without it.
Without his mouth on mine. Without his tongue.
His lips. Without the soft sounds Connor makes when he’s kissed deeply.
I cage him against the shelves and kiss him until the shock and confusion of being away from him all day recedes, and I gradually come back to my senses.
When I pull away, he’s nowhere near his senses. Nowhere near his calm, centered self. He’s crazed. Eyes alight and alive, bleary with arousal. Mouth open and breathless.
I step back for air, and he arcs forward to catch me, his hands scrambling for my hips and digging into me. His fingers knot in my waistband and drag me back against him.
I’ve been hard on and off all day, and believe me, I could cut steel with my dick right now if I wanted to.
He’s hard too. I was aware of it on the roof this morning, the ridge in his pants that jutted against me, and I noticed it again when I first crashed into him this evening, but that awareness was dim.
Muted. The sparks our kisses unleashed were so profound that they drowned everything else out.
This is different.
He rocks his hips, grazes them against mine, and suddenly, I’m not dimly aware of a damn thing. I’m fully, wildly, rampantly aware that Connor is hard. He’s hard because of me. Stiff because I’m touching him. Because he wants me.
The realization sends shockwaves down my arms, up my legs. It pools in the middle of me, lights a flame unlike anything I’ve felt before. A flame that swells and burns and pours pure, boiling lust into my veins.
I don’t know who moves first. If he pulls me, or if I push him, or if we push and pull each other at the same time. All I know is that he’s in my arms and we’re moving. Legs and feet shuffling together as we kiss and bite at each other.
“It was a long day, Con,” I mumble into his mouth. “So long.”
“It was too long, Lennon. I missed you.”
We’re in the living room.
The hall.
We bump into the alcove and pause there. I get so distracted by his bottom lip that I forget where we’re going. We crash into a doorframe and stumble into Connor’s bedroom for no reason other than that it’s closer than mine.
I walk him back to the bed. Purposefully now, not in a fever dream. I want him there. On his bed. I want to lie with him, on cotton and clouds and on him, and I want to kiss him without the challenge of remaining upright.
He lies back and pulls me down with him smoothly, one hand hooked around my neck, teeth snapping gently at my jaw.
I lower myself onto him, and it feels like it did when I kissed him for the first time.
Like a relief. Like a respite. Like it’s insane that a time ever existed when he didn’t lie beneath me, writhing, and I didn’t hold him down with my hips and my chest. Where he wasn’t this close to me, and I wasn’t aware of every inch of his body.
Our kisses quickly grow urgent. Faster and harder.
Soft moans turn to grunts as we tear at each other’s clothes.
I’m on top of him, and I’m not getting off him, so getting to his skin is a problem.
I tug at his T-shirt, pulling it up so his belly and chest are exposed.
At the same time, I struggle with my shirt, ripping a couple of buttons as he undoes others.
Between us, we manage to get my shirt open, but not off my shoulders.
It’s enough. Enough to close the ache between us. The throb. The burn. His skin touches mine and heat sluices through me. Our chests arch. Our hips rise to meet each other.
The ridge in his pants pulses against mine.
It has an ache and a throb of its own. A new ache.
A new throb. One that wipes my mind clean and makes my hips snap and grind with need that feels like it won’t ever end.
Between us, we struggle with zippers and belts, cussing and swearing as I yank his pants down enough to expose his cock, and he does the same to me.
My hand slides up his shaft as soon as it’s free, and everything slows. I stop moving and look down.
Fuck.
I like what I see. Abs that are clenched hard. A mat of trimmed hair, and a dick stretched out and twitching to get closer to me. Not any dick. Connor’s dick. A dick that feels like him.
I buck my hips against him, and my naked cock touches his. There’s a jolt when it happens. A thrill. A roar that rips through me. A burst of arousal so strong it shocks me and throws my head back as a long guttural moan fills the room.