Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Florian
Mateo is kissing me. Kissing me like in the movies. Better than in the movies, because his tongue is touching mine and swirling against it, and then—
Mein Gott.
Then, Mateo is sucking on my tongue.
My cock is hard. It has turned to stone. Mateo might as well be one of those ethereal beings that have transformed Norway’s troll population into strangely shaped rocks.
I have never felt anything so good.
He pulls himself from my lips. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks are pink, and his hair is ruffled from where I touched it.
“Bed,” he says. “We should—”
“Yes.” I sweep him into my arms and carry him to the bed. I lower him onto the covers, now free from that germ disaster, then I climb onto the bed after him.
Mateo immediately straddles me, pressing me into the mattress. He lowers himself onto my chest so that our torsos touch, and his hands play with my hair.
His kisses move from my lips to my neck. He swirls his tongue against my ear, then captures my earlobe in his mouth.
“Oh, my God.”
Mateo grins. “Like it?”
“Why does this feel so good?”
This is why everyone speaks about lovemaking with awe. I understand now.
Mateo’s hands move over my body as his tongue attacks me again and again and again.
His cock pokes against my stomach, and he repositions himself so that our cocks touch.
And that, exactly that, is heaven.
I have now experienced true pleasure.
Because there cannot possibly be any sensation better in the world than Mateo’s tongue in my mouth, his hands in my hair, his chest against mine, and his cock touching mine.
His hands move over me with expertise.
We continue to kiss, and Mateo continues to rock against me. His body is hot against mine, and sweat glistens over his face and makes us slide together.
Normally, Mateo is clothed. Even when we slept beside each other in Boston, he was clothed in pajamas. Heart-covered pajamas that look nothing like the sweatpants and t-shirt Mateo was holding when I entered the room.
But now Mateo is naked. Now I can see every part of Mateo.
Now I can see all the parts of his body that he covers with velvet blazers and soft t-shirts and khakis.
His clothes are normally bright colors that make me smile each time I see him, but now he is nude, like he’s a statue I might see in a museum.
His body is hard, and he’s slenderer than the hockey players. Most have their extra padding that they obtained from careful partying in the summer, prepared to meet even the most ferocious center or winger from any team who might be scheduled to oppose us.
When we lived together, when I thought he was my everything, when I knew Mateo was a kind man, but I didn’t know he was a kind man pretending to care about me, he would exercise in the living room.
He would contort his body into interesting positions during morning yoga, and I would watch him, not knowing he wasn’t mine.
But now he is moving against me, not my apartment’s stone floor or the pull-up bar I installed over one of my doorways when I ordered exercise equipment to fill my one-bedroom apartment instead of attempting to fill the apartment with people.
His hands play with my hair, and he drags his fingers over each short strand. He has studied head massages too. I know it.
His scent—more complex and fun than anything I pick up when I browse the duty-free section of airports when I do not want to sit alone in the lounge for hours and risk curious onlookers recognize me, wafts around me. I love it.
We kiss and kiss. His tongue sweeps over mine with confidence. It swirls, nudging me into a dance.
Nothing has felt like this before. I place my arms around his body, and he is there, not a figment of my never-that-capable imagination. He is not hovering over me, beautiful and perfect, and separated from me by millions of particles of oxygen.
Now he is smashed against me, and my whole body celebrates. I tighten my grip around his waist, and he emits a delighted gasp, as if he needs his back to be reminded that we are touching even when he is lying on top of me.
My hands explore his bottom, and the way it curves out and is firm and is fascinating.
His cock grinds against me, hard and pulsing.
I want him inside me. I have inserted other objects inside me: brightly colored items I got from pages of the internet that I only accessed with VPNs and browsers set to private, blushing each time I happened upon someone in my Mannheim apartment building, in case my protections had failed and they’d been able to track everything I did.
The experience had always been imperfect. It had never lived up to the advertised promise. I’d stared at the silicon and pondered the potential for bad things to form inside of me, double-checking, then triple-checking that each product was 100% medical grade and would not disintegrate inside me.
But Mateo is real. He was not constructed in a factory. He was not packaged by someone sending disapproving glances at him.
I tighten my grip on Mateo, because I only want to think of him. I run my hands over the interesting, rounded shape of his bottom. His stubble brushes against my cheeks and chin.
Our cocks continue to grind against each other, and my cells continue to celebrate.