Chapter 14. #3
His mom looks a lot warmer in the picture I see on the wall of a study he takes me to.
She’s somewhere in her gardens grinning at the camera like a joke just caught her off-guard.
I see tightness in her eyes, like she’s smiling too hard.
“I can’t quite read her,” I note, “but there’s only so much you can get from a frozen moment in time, I guess. I’m a better read on people in motion.”
“Pray you never see her in motion,” says TJ, and that’s that.
The guest wing sure as hell ain’t dignified at all by the mere words “guest wing”.
It’s a completely self-sufficient living quarters with its own kitchen, hallway of bedrooms, and huge living room complete with a huge entertainment set, all of this spilling onto an outdoor area with a pool and gazebo.
He wasn’t kidding. This can house the whole band and crew, Soul Biter included.
“Is that fat beautiful pavilion of yours out there takin’ gigs?” I ask TJ, only half kidding.
He stands by the back glass doors, arms folded, and smiles.
“Every summer, we host the Annual Spruce Ball Fundraiser for the Arts. It’ll be the seventh annual this year.
Strongs hosted the first one ‘til my mom wrestled it away from Nadine.” He eyes me over his shoulder.
“The politics around here … the trifecta of Spruce’s matriarchy vying for social power every turn of the season.
You get used to it, and at some point, tune it out completely.
Nadine’s the mayor now. What else could she possibly want? ”
“Uh, weren’t you tryin’ to turn me off of your town?” I have to laugh. “The more you say, the more I’m fallin’ in love with this place. Both the mayor’s sons are gay, you were tellin’ me last night on the phone?”
“Both married to men. But one’s bisexual, the younger one. Came out to the whole town on that pavilion out there, actually, when he pulled his best friend up onto the stage with him for a dance. It was … actually kinda romantic.”
I come up to TJ, brushing his bangs off his forehead. He looks at me, startled by my touch. “They got a mind of their own, always tryin’ to cover up those pretty eyes of yours,” I say, like I have to justify my actions. “Damn, I want to kiss you so badly right now.”
“I …” TJ licks his lips instinctively. “I want you to, also. But …” He clears his throat. “I haven’t finished the, uh … tour.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“Yeah, you have,” he agrees at once, then rushes into my face.
I stagger back, overcome by his kiss. My foot kicks into the leg of a chair—the biggest, cushiest armchair I’ve ever seen—and I fall back into it.
He’s atop me the next second, and I don’t know where to put my hands as he dives into my face.
We’ve traded places now with him driving kisses down my cheek, down my neck, and with no warning whatsoever, hiking my shirt up to continue carving a path of kisses down my sensitive chest.
Was this on our minds the whole tour? Nice picture this, nice guestroom that, when are we gonna smash our mouths together? I have no idea what’s in his head other than the noise of us kissing, but he’s all out of words and full to the top with appetite.
His head’s tucked under my shirt now with his lips all over my chest. With him pressing me to this cushy dream of an armchair, I have no hope or desire of stopping him.
I feel his fingers at my crotch.
My jeans are opened in seconds, then slid down with ease.
For half a heartbeat, I part my lips to tell him to stop, that he doesn’t have to go all in, that I’m not just here for—But all of that instinct is gone the second his fingers wrap around my cock and his firm, wet lips close over its head.
Oh, shit.
Then he goes down on it, all the way, every inch.
Oh, holy fuckin’ shit.
I don’t remember putting my hands on his head, but there they are, gripping his hair like I’m on a ride, a rollercoaster of us, click-clacking its way to the top of the hill, now stopped, dipped downward, anticipating the exhilarating first drop.
That’s what this is, isn’t it? Our exhilarating first drop?
I don’t know what it is about musicians on the road that leads everyone to assume we’re sexing it up ten times a night, but I can attest from my own personal experience that it ain’t true for all of us.
I’m isolated as hell. Untouched. Longing for affection.
Bleeding it out of every song I pour onto that stage, feeling like the world is so fucking far away, I can’t even see it most nights.
And it’s one thing just to be touched. But by someone you care about? Someone you can’t get out of your mind? Who means more to you than cheap overnight meet-and-greets in a hotel?
The second he comes up, eyes finding mine, lips wet from his efforts, I cling to his face and drag him back up to mine for a kiss.
I taste myself on his tongue. “What’s gotten into you?
” I whisper on his lips. He coyly answers, “You.” Then I take hold of him fully, lift him straight off of me, and transfer him to the couch right next to us, laying him down and crawling over him, fingers woven right back into his sexy, messy hair.
It’s downright animal, the passion unleashed between us.
Guess it’s an appropriate consequence, for holding out so long on each other, leaving this desire building up to dangerous levels.
I lift my mouth from his for just a second to get a look at his face.
He opens his eyes slowly, as if coming up for air from a deep pool.
When he smiles, I smile right back. “That song I wrote,” I tell him, “it’s called ‘In Your Ocean’, and I think you’re inspirin’ a few more called ‘In Your House’ … then ‘In Your Arms’ …”
“‘In Your Bed’,” he suggests, then tilts his head. “I sure hope you plan on singing all these songs to me. But, like, artfully naked. Only your guitar covering you up.”
I peel off my shirt and pitch it across the room. “That so?”
TJ peels off his from underneath me, sits up for half a second to join his shirt with my own, then says, “Yeah. All of them.”
“Keep on inspirin’ me, then.” I return my lips to his neck. He leans back against the couch, breathing heavily under each touch of my mouth on his exposed skin as I explore his body. He smells so good. Tastes even better. The second I’m on him, I can’t get enough, no matter how much I get.
I bury my face in his crotch. His hands find my hair, clinging to it.
My fingers curl greedily into the waistband of his shorts and underwear both, working them down with slow, deliberate intent.
His deep breaths come quicker as I free his cock, letting it press to my cheek, as warm as the sun, fully erect.
I turn my head and open my lips onto its pliable length.
My mouth enjoys the veiny texture, then my tongue as I let it out to drag over its firm surface, all the way up to his swollen head.
I catch him watching me from the top of the mountain of him.
I smirk, part my lips, and let him inside.
His face scrunches up and his cute lips round into an “O” of delirium, like he never dreamed this could happen to him.
With my own cock still out, I start stroking with my free hand as I go up and down on his with my mouth, working him right up to the edge with ease.
I feel his legs squirming underneath me like he’s trying to fight it off, hold it in as long as he can, despite the build-up in both of us desperately ready to break free.
We let our appetites go too long ignored.
We can’t focus on a single thing in our lives without a taste we both feel we’ve earned. Don’t we deserve to feel good?
Don’t we deserve to feel free?
It’s just our luck the second we spill over the edge together, it isn’t us who cries out, but a distant woman, voice echoing through the house: “TJ? Are you home, sweetheart? Whose car is in the driveway?”