Chapter 10 #2
He continues his torturous kissing down my stomach, and then to my hipbones, and I have to fist my hands in his sheets to keep from embarrassing myself.
“Just so you know,” Nick says conversationally, like he’s not inches away from my extremely interested cock, “I’m having a very surreal moment right now.”
“Yeah?”
“I have literally had dreams about this. Like, actual dreams. And now it’s happening, and I don’t know whether to be turned on or have an existential crisis.”
I laugh, which probably isn’t the sexiest response, but I can’t help it. “Can you do both simultaneously?”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.” He presses a kiss to my hip bone. “Just give me a second to process that I’m about to blow a guy whose poster has been on my wall for three years.”
“Take your time. I’ll wait.”
“So generous.” He looks up at me through those ridiculous lashes, his eyes dark with want. “Okay. Crisis managed. Horniness winning.”
And then his mouth is on me, and I stop laughing entirely.
He’s good at this. Really good. He starts slow, teasing, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me grip the sheets harder. His tongue does something absolutely devastating, and my hips buck involuntarily.
“Sorry—” I start.
He pulls off just long enough to say, “Don’t apologize. That’s hot as hell.” Then he takes me deeper into his mouth, and I lose the ability to form words.
My hand finds his hair, needing something to anchor me. He hums around me and the vibration makes me see stars.
“Nick,” I warn, my voice wrecked. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”
He pulls back, lips swollen and shiny, looking extremely pleased with himself. “That’s kind of the point.”
“I want—” I reach for him, pulling him back up so I can kiss him. I can taste myself on his tongue, which should be weird but is actually incredibly hot. “I want to touch you too.”
We rearrange ourselves, hands finding each other, and I wrap my fingers around him. He’s hard and leaking, and the sound he makes when I stroke him—this broken little moan—goes straight to my core.
He puts his hand on mine, helping me set a rhythm for a few strokes, then gently moves my hand down and back farther, guiding my fingers to press into him.
“You want this?” I ask as I trace light circles.
“I want everything you can give me,” he gasps. “And I swear a porn script writer is not writing my dialogue right now.”
I can’t help laughing. God, I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun during sex before.
There’s the slightly awkward fumbling for supplies in his nightstand drawer—“I swear the lube is in here somewhere, this is so unsexy, hold on”—and he finally holds up condoms and lube triumphantly.
“Given my ex’s parting gift, I’m kind of religious about condoms now.”
“I completely understand.”
I squirt lube on my fingers, and then press back in, crooking my fingers until I find the spot that makes him jolt.
I add a second finger, watching his face for any sign of discomfort.
All I see is want.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask.
Nick rolls onto his side, presenting his back to me like an invitation. “Big spoon me. But like, sexually.”
“Big spoon you sexually,” I repeat. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“I panicked! My brain is not working at full capacity right now.” He wiggles back against me impatiently. “Just…come here.”
I’m laughing as I put on the condom. Then I curl around him, my front pressed to his back, my arm wrapping around his waist. He makes a sound of pure contentment that does something to my heart.
“Good?” I ask.
“So good. Now less talking, more—” He grinds against me, and we both groan.
I press into him slowly, inch by inch, and oh my god, I place my forehead on his shoulder, breathing hard, and just feel him.
He’s so warm. So tight. So perfectly, impossibly right.
“Jesus,” Nick gasps, gripping my forearm where it’s wrapped around him.
“Too much?”
“Not enough. Move. Please.”
I obey him, and I swear every nerve ending in my body lights up. This close, I can feel every shudder that runs through him, every hitch in his breath. His back is warm against my chest, and I can feel his heart racing, matching the rhythm of my own.
I wrap my hand around his cock to stroke him, and he lets out a sound that sounds almost like a sob.
Through trial and error, I learn he likes it when I go slow. That his breath catches when I kiss along his shoulder blade and onto his neck. That he says my name like it’s the only word he knows when I find the right rhythm moving inside him and stroking him.
And he learns me too. Pays attention to every sound I make and adjusts accordingly, like pleasing me is a skill he’s determined to master.
But then I reach a point where I need more. I need to see his face.
“Can I—” I withdraw, and he makes a sound of protest.
“I want to see you.”
Nick rolls onto his back immediately, pulling me with him. “God, yes. I want to see you too.”
I settle between his legs, hovering over him, and for a moment, we look at each other. His hair is a disaster. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are so soft that it makes my chest ache.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
Then I push back into him.
“You’re right. This is even better,” Nick breathes, hooking his ankles behind my back.
I have to kiss him before I can continue. Have to feel his smile against my lips.
And I start to move, and it’s so much better. Now I can watch every reaction cross his face. Can see exactly what I’m doing to him. Can let him see what he’s doing to me.
His hands roam my back, my shoulders, my arms—like he can’t decide where to touch but needs to touch everywhere. I change the angle slightly, and his eyes go wide.
“There,” he gasps. “Right there, don’t stop—”
I don’t stop. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. We’re moving together in a way that feels almost choreographed, like our bodies figured out something our minds are still catching up to.
Nick’s hand finds my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and the tenderness of the gesture contrasts so sharply with what we’re doing that something in my chest cracks open.
Everything seems to go quiet except for our breathing. It has stopped being about technique or even pleasure and has become something else entirely. Nick’s forehead pressed against mine. Our eyes locked. Moving together.
And I think: Oh. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
When we finally come undone—him first, then me following moments later—it’s messy and imperfect and absolutely nothing like the polished, performative encounters I’ve had before.
It’s better. It’s so much better.
“For the record,” Nick says afterward, both of us sprawled across his tiny bed, “the posters definitely improved your performance.”
“I’ll make sure to mention that in my next interview. ‘Anthony Devine recommends narcissistic décor for optimal bedroom performance.’”
“I guess you could include that in your next Architectural Living feature,” he says, and I laugh.
God. That Architectural Living feature. I’d cringed so much when I’d first watched it.
But now…now it’s what brought me Nick, so I’ll never regret it.
We lie there for a while, just enjoying the afterglow. I trace lazy patterns on his shoulder while he plays with my hair.
“I should probably make you breakfast,” Nick says eventually. “Fair warning: I can offer you cereal, questionably dated yogurt, or toast if we have bread.”
“A gourmet selection.”
“Only the finest for my… What are we calling you?”
I swallow. Boyfriend feels like the right word, but saying it aloud feels like too much. We only met in person last night, even though we’ve been talking for over a month. I’m not sure how the math works on that. Whether the messaging counts toward something.
“I believe the technical term is ‘guy you met on the internet who turned out to be exactly who he said he was.’” I chicken out of any discussion about the term boyfriend.
Nick’s face is expressionless. “That might be a bit wordy for everyday use.”
His face gives me nothing, and I can’t tell if the joke landed or fell flat. That’s the thing about real life—no time to edit, no backspace key. You just say something and hope it doesn’t ruin everything.
We head into the kitchen, me wearing one of Nick’s T-shirts that’s slightly too small, him in sweatpants that have seen better days. The apartment is quiet—his roommate’s door is still closed.
“Coffee?” Nick asks, already reaching for a mug.
“Please. I’m basically nonfunctional without it.”
“I don’t know…you functioned pretty well just a few minutes ago.”
He looks so cute as he meets my gaze, a slight blush on his cheeks, that I can’t help but move forward to reel him in for a kiss.
His lips are soft under mine, and he melts into me immediately, his hands coming up to rest on my chest. It’s a gentle kiss, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says, “I’m not going anywhere.”
We’re both smiling when we break apart.
Nick starts puttering around the kitchen, and I’m struck by how domestic this feels. How easy. With Nick, it feels like all of the excitement of a new relationship, but also the comfort of an established one.
“I need to use your bathroom,” I say.
“Down the hall, try not to judge us for the state of it.”
The bathroom is exactly what you’d expect from two college students—half-empty products everywhere, a shower curtain that’s seen better days, and a towel that should be classified as a biohazard.
I can hear Nick moving around in the kitchen through the thin walls—the clink of mugs, the hiss of the ancient coffee maker.
I’m just washing my hands when I hear a door creak open and shuffling footsteps.
“Nick?” It’s a girl’s voice. “How did it go last night? Is your internet boyfriend a sixty-year-old serial killer?”
I quickly dry my hands and open the door in time to see a girl stumbling toward the coffee maker, dressed in oversized pajamas and fuzzy slippers.
“It went…well,” Nick says carefully, glancing toward where I’m now standing in the doorway.
“Just well? Come on, I need details. Is he cute? Is he actually in his twenties? Did he—” She turns around, coffee mug in hand, and sees me.
“Hey, you must be Jade,” I say.
Jade’s mouth drops open and she drops the cup of coffee she’s holding. It hits the floor with a crash, coffee exploding everywhere, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
“What the fuck?” she says faintly.
“So,” Nick says, stepping over the coffee puddle, “funny story about the guy I’ve been messaging…”
“What the fuck!”
“I told you he kept saying he was Anthony Devine.”
“I thought that was a joke!”
“Technically, I did tell him multiple times that I was actually Anthony Devine,” I offer helpfully. “He just didn’t believe me.”
Jade points at me without looking away from Nick. “Is this real? Am I having a stroke? Did I drink too much last night, and this is some kind of weird hallucination?”
“All valid questions,” Nick says. “But no, you’re not hallucinating. My catfish turned out to be exactly who he said he was.”
“I need to sit down.” Jade stumbles backward, her slippers splashing through the coffee. “I need… I need an adult.”
“You are an adult,” Nick points out.
“A different adult. An adultier adult. Someone who can explain why Anthony Devine is in our kitchen looking like he just…” She waves vaguely at both of us. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Would you like me to clean that up?” I offer, pointing at the spilled coffee.
“And now Anthony Devine is offering to clean up our kitchen. I need to process this.” She grabs Nick’s arm. “We need to talk. Now.”
She drags him toward her room, and through the paper-thin walls, I hear every word.
“You had sex with Anthony Devine, and I stepped in coffee because of it. You owe me new slippers!”