Chapter Ten Mateo
(I Asked Him to Let Me In)
Ishould jump when I hear the knock at the door less than a minute later, but I don't. Maybe I'd noticed the footsteps, or maybe I'd just hoped hard enough for Jamie to return.
I look down my body, where my shirt is still hanging open and my legs are now bare.
My pants have joined the pile on the floor because my entire body is vibrating with need that hasn't allowed me to be tidy.
I give myself a couple of quick strokes over the pale blue boxer briefs left behind and pause at the small wet spot that would give my secrets away if I had any to keep.
I step forward and remind myself to be careful because that faint line hasn’t gone anywhere, and even if Jamie has changed his mind about spending the night, it hasn't changed anything else.
I'm so hard I think I could cry, but I've ignored it before and I can do it again.
There's a month until graduation, and so much unknown after that, so for tonight, we'll continue to be friends.
Being everything has to wait.
It's so late—early, really—and while I don't expect anyone to be wandering past my door at this hour, I only crack it open, confirm it's him, then duck out of the way before the rest of the apartment complex can see me half-naked.
Beautiful and bothered, he falls against the door as soon as it's locked again, and I won't pull him any closer.
I stay a foot or two away and don't apologize for standing in front of him with a dick weeping for attention.
Jamie doesn't apologize for failing to meet my eyes.
"Are you going to stay?"
"No."
That surprises me, I think. If we can't cross lines, and he won't spend the night like he's done before, there aren't a lot of options left for us.
I watch as he turns his head toward the kitchen, and the empty glasses we left on the counter when I asked him to dance.
I can't drink any more bourbon, but I won't stop him if he's thirsty.
My phone is still there too, the playlist nowhere near over, just in case he'd like to dance again.
Maybe I could take his shirt off this time.
When he gives up on the kitchen, he makes eye contact for a moment before he looks past me instead, finding the dark suit pants crumpled on the floor. Then his big blue eyes open wide.
"You weren't in your bedroom yet. You weren't getting ready to sleep. When you took off your pants, you—you were right where I left you."
"I was feeling pretty desperate. Didn't think I'd make it any further."
"Your bedroom's only twenty feet away."
I shrug. "My couch is right there."
"And I interrupted."
He didn't really, but the thought of it makes me twitch. I take a slow breath while Jamie continues to look at me, seeing more than he ever has, and I want to ask him why he's here. I'm not sure I'd get an answer, and I decide not to try.
"No," I tell him, a confession or a dare. "I hadn't started yet."
Jamie nods and accepts both. "Are you still desperate?"
"Of course I am."
"Your couch is right there."
"And where are the lines?" I ask.
"We're right on top of them."
It's such a quiet answer—everything is quiet except the songs I'll never hear the same way again—and I move away from him, certain he'll follow and curious what will happen after that.
We could watch each other get off. We could help each other get off, though that seems a step past "right on top of," even in the middle of the night when everything’s a blur.
Either way, I lie down for him, my boxer briefs still in place when I wait to see what Jamie will do next.
I was stunned when I returned from prom to find him sitting with his back against my door, and I'm stunned now when he sits on the floor, his back against my couch. He reaches for my hand over his shoulder, clasps it in his, and doesn't turn to look at me.
He just holds on.
I'm foolishly delirious, and too love-drunk to be afraid of turning the wrong things upside down over the lines he says are beneath us.
I've needed this relief since I told him to go, and it feels so fucking good to finally pull my cock free, those first couple of strokes causing me to make a sound like one of his.
I shift until I can push the fabric a little lower and tuck it beneath my balls, cupping them before I return to the same reckless rhythm.
When I'm noisy again, Jamie squeezes my hand and I arch into my fist, wet and whining.
There are things I should say. At the very least, I think I should remind him I love him, but the relative silence around us almost makes each sensation better and my staccato breathing loud.
Besides, maybe if we don’t speak, the most dangerous parts of our night won’t be real.
This won't take nearly as long as it has thousands of other times, and I won't disrupt anything to tell him that either.
I briefly wonder whether he's getting off too, but his body remains still when I slow down enough to check, and the pressure of his hand only responds to the things I do.
When I'm almost lazy about teasing my tip, Jamie's thumb brushes gently against my skin.
When my grip is unforgiving and I speed up and another moan slips free, he tightens his hold on me.
I tremble, and he vibrates with my need.
He still hasn't turned around to watch what I know he must want to see, and I won't explain it away with a simple lack of experience or the relationship we can't have yet.
This is an eager, hungry man who's lived through rumors full of truth, but he's got hold of the control I've lost, simply because he knows I can't do anything but race toward an inevitable end.
I want him to talk me through this, and I think he could be filthy about it, but asking Jamie to speak will break the only spell that will protect us for another minute or two.
He came over with more on his mind than some bourbon and a slow dance, but pushing for those answers might hurt in a way this doesn't. We once confessed to wanting a night that would be loud and slow, but this moment is full of other things we've dreamed of and can't have, and I don't worry about how many more years that might be true.
Something is wrong, but the intimacy is exactly right, and if this fragile thing will shatter, I want to appreciate the beauty for the short time we have it.
Jamie can tell me everything later. I'm going to come now.
Every ragged breath and needy moan tangles together, and I feel my stomach muscles contract.
As one of my hands works furiously around my dick, the other is curled around a promise, so afraid to let it go when the rest of my body surrenders to pure pleasure.
My release ripples through me and leaves my chest messier than it's been in a while, Jamie's closeness as effective at ruining me as anything ever has been.
I close my eyes and will my heartbeat to quiet so I can hear the rest of what neither of us will say.
In the few seconds after that, my hand is free, and his head remains turned.
I tuck myself back into my boxer briefs, and while I hadn't imagined I'd be here when I got dressed hours ago, I use the loose sides of my shirt to wipe my body clean and ignore how much I'm still shaking.
Sitting up takes effort, though it's less than what Jamie has just used to stand, and if I thought he'd accept, I'd invite him to stay while I massage the ache away.
Instead, I watch the rise and fall of his shoulders as he sighs, and when he walks toward my door, I prepare myself for a wordless goodbye. I'm not even sure he'll turn to look at me before he goes, but my legs won't allow me to give chase.
He does, though. Jamie turns around in the open doorway, and eyes that have always been a little sad make me want to cry.
"Mateo, I—" His voice breaks, and I'm too softened by liquor and an orgasm to fully register the cracks it leaves in me. "Call me tomorrow?"
"Of course."
Of course.
Of course I agree to call him tomorrow. When I throw my dirty clothes in the hamper and pull on a pair of sleep shorts and stare bleary-eyed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I can't figure out a reason I wouldn't want to talk to him.
I'm worried about the conversation itself, but if I don't call him, how will I know what I'm most afraid of?
I brush my teeth and crawl into bed and only wonder how early he'll be awake when he's been up so late tonight.
Then I sleep far too well and roll over mid-morning, already thinking about him when I reach for my phone. Those first several seconds of my day are lazy bliss, and then I see two texts from Sophie.
The first is a simple question. Did you know about this?
The second is a link, and I pay little attention to it until I land on a relatively reputable sports media site. I'm not sure knowing where I was headed would've helped me dodge the shock of the headline. I read it quickly, and my stomach turns faster than that.
Broken No More: Former Phenom Jameson Sinclair to Join Rival Behind the Bench in New Jersey