Chapter 15 #2
I stare at our reflections in the kitchen window, unable to help a little smile rising, as Neil does the same.
His body wrapped around mine is a very, very good look on me.
I watch as his fingers hitch up the bottom edge of my hoodie and slip inside my trackie bottoms. His other hand creeps north, rolling one of my nipples between finger and thumb, bringing it alive.
We’re still swaying, and Neil’s still softly singing.
I can’t tear my gaze away. Pushing my boxers lower, he dips his hand deeper until he cups my balls, mirroring the massaging of my nipple.
I can’t see my leaking dick in the reflection—the window is too high—but some parts of me are much slower to succumb to this lethargy than others.
“Another cinema date.” Neil smiles at me through the glass. He’s gazing at me as if I’m beautiful, a lick of flame in his eyes, and for this short moment, my pale reflection almost agrees with him. “I’m loving this movie. The male co-stars are hot.”
We both watch the slow, steady flex of his arm muscles, the curve of his capable bicep as he delivers strokes of pleasure.
As my orgasm gradually builds, tingling warmth rolls through me.
My mouth falls open. But my head isn’t in the game; I recognise I’m turned on, but I’m numb inside, almost as if my pale reflection is the one pleasured.
“You’re so good at this.” I arch up into his hand. “It’s intimidating.”
“I’m a guitarist,” he whispers back. “I’m excellent with my fingers.”
I watch him nuzzle into my hoodie then swipe a lick up the side of my neck.
He’s also excellent with his tongue. Our voyeurism is turning Neil on; through his jeans, his erection presses against my bare arse.
I wonder how his dick would feel inside me, how it would feel if I bent over for him now, spread my thighs wide, and he unfastened his trousers and—
“I’m going to come.”
I clutch the edge of the worktop. Neil’s hand shuttles faster, doing it better than I do it to myself. Ropey lines of cum spill from his hand and onto the kitchen floor. He pumps my dick until I squirm away.
“Now watch this,” he urges, twisting me around.
He’s breathing harshly, dick out of his jeans, and using my spunk as lube, jerking his shaft.
Still reeling from my own orgasm, I can barely hold myself up.
My eyes don’t know where to look: the swollen purple head of his dick, glossy with my cum, the tense muscular cords of his forearm, or his face as he works himself, top lip trapping the lower, eyes glazed, sweat beading on his brow.
He orgasms on a half-laugh, half gasp, hastily stepping back so as not to spray me with it, catching most in his other hand.
I’m still sagged against the sink. It all feels as if it’s happening behind a pane of glass.
“That was the sequel.”
Laughing, he grabs sheets of kitchen towel.
With no idea how surreal this is for me, Neil cleans himself up, then me like it’s nothing, whereas I’m untethered, trying to prevent my knees from floating way.
I should tell him I’m adrift, now, whilst he’s flooded with post-orgasm bliss. Even though it might change things.
Instead, I let him pepper me in kisses, until the pasta comes to the boil.
“Intimidating?” he observes later. We’re on the sofa, forking pasta into our mouths from two of my pretty chintzy bowls. “Does it bother you I’ve been around the block a few times?”
“A little,” I admit. My anxieties insist I put it out there between us.
If Neil’s still around when I come through this downer, I’m planning on trying everything with him.
“But only because I’m so far behind. I’d like to…
to blow you, but I’m kind of daunted. And…
and I read about precautions…I know you should wear condoms for oral sex if your partner has been, like, out there.
But do men actually do that? You didn’t with me. ”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “I was prepared to take a risk on an inactive volcano.”
More like one on the threat of extinction before Neil came along.
And I’m not exactly bubbling with heat and excitement now, not with this unseductive line of chat.
I have no idea how we’ve ended up discussing sex while eating pasta.
Especially as I’ve never had an honest conversation about sex with anyone, whether eating pasta or not, which probably explains why my previous sexual experience has been so limited and underwhelming.
I’m flustered. Part of me wishes we were talking about guitars again.
But there’s something about the way Neil listens, the way he nods, that stops me changing the subject.
Everything I’ve always been curious about but too embarrassed to ask loosens in my chest. I swear I could tell him I’d been a secret kitten strangler in a former life, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
“Do you normally? Wear a condom with a guy you didn’t know?”
“For oral?” Neil shakes his head. “Nah, not unless he wanted. Most guys on the scene don’t bother. I do for anal, and I’ve been taking PrEP for a few years. Although I’ve stopped it since we became a thing.”
“Since—" I’m still processing.
He carries on. “When the eye hospital sent me for a bunch of blood tests at my doctor's surgery, I had STD tests done too, seeing as I was in the building anyhow. Nothing showed up, not that I was necessarily expecting it to, but it’s good to know. I usually check once or twice a year.”
We’re a thing. We’re a thing. He’s stopped taking precautions. Because of me.
“I’ve never had an STD test,” I confide.
“Should I be worried?” Neil sounds not the slightest bit worried.
“No. I’ve…I’ve literally had penetrative sex twice in my life—both occasions with women.
And I wore a condom both times. Neither were very satisfactory encounters, for me or them, I don’t think.
They certainly never volunteered for it again, anyhow.
I’ve never even put my own fingers up my arse and found my prostate.
I wouldn’t know where to start with a toy. ”
Okay, so now I wish I had told him I strangle kittens in my spare time. My cheeks are on fire, nothing to do with the steaming hot food.
Neil’s eyes settle on me, soft and amused. He’s stopped PrEP because of me. That’s…an insane level of something I can’t begin to comprehend.
“Do you want to?” he asks. “Use toys?”
Oh God, bring me a fluffy kitten right now. How the hell does he say stuff like this without dying inside? “I think I should concentrate on the basics,” I croak.
“Like me fucking you? You fucking me?” Neil waves his fork around. “’Cos when you’re ready, there’ll be nothing basic about it, I can assure you.”
Me fucking him? My head is exploding. Sinking lower into the sofa, I shovel in some pasta. Neil strokes my knee.
“You know, you are very cute like this, rash whisperer.”
“I don’t want to be cute.” I stab at my food.
“I want to be cool and sexy and in control. Instead, I took a nap on you, have a snotty nose, am a ball of anxiety, and ejaculated within three seconds of you touching my dick. And I ask a lot of dumb questions because Google doesn’t have all the answers to stuff I don’t know. ”
Neil laughs again. I love his laugh; it’s free and kind. “If that’s not the definition of cute, my little cutie pie, then I don’t know what is.”
My pretence at crossness fails. We’re going to have sex. Penetrative sex. And it won’t be basic. And we won’t need condoms. Soon. If I can hold it together and he still wants me when he finds out I’m a mental health hot mess.