Chapter 21 #2
He came with my fingers shoved deep in his mouth, his jaw clenched tight around them, every sound trapped behind his teeth. I swallowed everything he gave me, worked him through it until he was shaking and oversensitive, until his hand loosened in my hair and his head fell back against the pole.
I pulled off and slid my fingers from his mouth. They were wet with spit, the skin flushed where he'd bitten down. I wiped them on my thigh without looking away from his face.
Red's knees buckled. He slid down the pole until he was sitting in the sand, his briefs still shoved down his thighs, his chest heaving.
"Jesus Christ," he managed.
I was already reaching for the tape.
"Hold still." I got to work while he was still soft, still trembling with aftershocks, taping him down with quick, efficient movements. Then I pulled his briefs back up and smoothed the waistband into place. "There. Now nothing's going anywhere."
Red stared at me. His face was flushed, his eyes glazed, his hair wrecked from where he'd been pressing his head against the pole.
"You just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "We have to go back out there and pretend that didn't happen."
"Yes." I stood and brushed the sand off my knees. My own cock was hard, pressing against the tape I'd applied earlier, but that was a problem for later. "Can you do that?"
He laughed, breathless and a little wild. "Do I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice." I picked up his robe and held it out to him. "You just keep choosing me."
He took the robe and stood, his legs unsteady. The post-orgasm haze was clearing from his eyes, replaced by something sharper.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I keep doing that."
He walked past me toward the light. I followed, the taste of him on my tongue, and we went back to pretending we were strangers.
The rest of the shoot was easier.
Red moved differently now, looser in his skin. Diana kept making approving sounds behind her camera. She probably thought he'd finally relaxed into the work.
We did the water shots as the sun sank toward the horizon, waist-deep in the surf, waves breaking around us. I steadied Red when a wave knocked him off balance, my hand on his hip, and he leaned into the touch for half a second before remembering where we were.
The light went gold, then orange, then started to fade.
"That's a wrap," Diana finally called.
Crew members started breaking down equipment. Someone handed me a towel, and I dried off, watching Red do the same twenty feet away. He was talking to Diana, nodding at something she said, and he looked like a professional. He looked like he belonged here.
Red laughed at something Diana said. The sound carried across the sand. He laughed like no one was watching, and I wanted to keep hearing that sound. The want was specific and inconvenient.
I thought about him going back to his hotel. Some chain near the airport, probably. He'd order room service and watch TV and text me from a bed that wasn't mine, and I'd be fifteen minutes away in a house I'd rented for the week, alone.
The thought was intolerable.
"Robert." I crossed the sand before I'd decided to move. Diana glanced at me, smiled, and made some excuse about checking the equipment.
Red watched her go, then looked at me. His eyes flicked past my shoulder, tracking the crew members still moving around us.
"Walk with me," I said. "Toward the water."
He fell into step beside me, and we moved down the beach until the crash of the waves would cover our voices.
“When’s your flight back?” I asked.
“Tomorrow.”
I stopped walking. “Cancel it.”
He frowned. “What?”
"I have a house," I said. "On the beach. Ten minutes from here."
Red kept his eyes on the water. "Okay."
"I rented it for the week. It has a kitchen. A pool." I was talking too much. I never talked too much. "The point is you could stay. If you wanted."
Red stared out at the water, his profile sharp against the fading light.
"Are you asking me to spend the week with you?"
Yes. No. I'd planned to do this shoot, fuck him somewhere semiprivate, and go back to my life.
I hadn't planned to stand here on a beach at sunset, offering him four days of something I couldn't name.
Four days of waking up next to him. Four days of meals and conversation and all the ordinary moments I'd spent years avoiding.
"I'm asking if you want to," I said. "That's all."
He was quiet for a long moment. I knew the calculations he was running. Who might notice. What they might assume. How many lies he'd have to tell.
"If anyone asks," he said finally, "I'm staying with a friend. Someone from back home."
"Fine."
"And I drive myself. Separate cars. I don't leave with you."
"Fine."
He turned to look at me, and his expression had lost some of its caution. "Yeah. Okay. I want to."
"I'll send you the address," I said. "Give me an hour to get there first."
"An hour." He was smiling now. "What are you going to do for an hour?"
"Shower. Change. Pretend I didn't just invite you to stay with me for four days like some kind of—" I stopped.
"Some kind of what?"
I didn't have an answer. Boyfriend was wrong. Lover was insufficient. Whatever we were didn't have a word yet, and I wasn't sure I wanted one. Words made things real. Words made things something you could lose.
"Just be there," I said, and walked away before I could say anything else.