Chapter 23
I woke up before Joel for the third day in a row.
He was still asleep beside me, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm thrown across my chest like he'd reached for me in the night and forgotten to let go. The tension he carried everywhere else had drained out of him.
I stayed there for a long time, watching him sleep. Then I slid out from under his arm and went to make coffee.
The kitchen was bright with morning sun. I'd figured out the espresso machine on Thursday, after twenty minutes of swearing and one close call with the steam wand. Now the routine came without thinking: beans, grind, tamp, pull.
I found flour in the pantry, eggs in the fridge, and butter softening on the counter from where Joel had left it out last night.
There was no buttermilk, but milk and a splash of lemon juice would do.
I'd learned to improvise years ago, back when Dad's appetite was unpredictable and I'd had to work with whatever was in the house.
The batter came together easy. I let it rest while I sliced strawberries, then ladled circles onto the hot pan and watched the bubbles form.
Three days of waking up together and falling asleep the same way, of Joel's face when he finally got the eggs right and my hands guiding his on the knife when we made dinner. Three days of pretending we were people who could have this.
Tomorrow was Sunday, our last day in this rented house. Then we’d have to fly back our separate cities, our separate lives.
I flipped the pancakes and kept my mind on the batter.
The tray was harder to find. I finally located one in a cabinet above the refrigerator, dusty and clearly decorative, probably included in the rental for exactly this kind of moment.
I loaded it up: pancakes, strawberries, maple syrup in a little pitcher, two cups of coffee. It looked like a magazine spread.
I carried it down the hall to the bedroom.
Joel was still asleep. The light had shifted while I'd been cooking, falling across the bed in warm stripes, catching the mess of his dark hair against the white pillow. He'd rolled onto his back at some point, the sheet pooled low on his hips, one hand resting on his bare stomach.
I stood in the doorway.
"Take a picture, Red. It’ll last longer."
His voice was rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
“I was thinking about it,” I replied. “You’re very photogenic.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.” He opened his eyes then, squinting against the light, and his gaze found the tray in my hands. "You made breakfast.”
"I made pancakes." I crossed to the bed and set the tray on the nightstand. "Figured we earned them."
Joel sat up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. He kept staring at the tray like he was waiting for it to disappear.
"I don't—" He hesitated. "I don't usually eat pancakes."
"Ever?"
"My diet is..." He trailed off, shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They smell good."
I handed him a plate. He took it carefully, both hands, the way you'd hold a gift you weren't sure you deserved.
"You don't have to eat them if you don't want," I said. "I can make eggs. Or there's that yogurt you bought—"
"No." His voice was quiet. "I want them."
He cut into the stack and took a bite. His eyes closed and a small groan escaped. “I forgot food could taste like this.”
We ate in bed. Joel worked through the pancakes slowly, savoring each bite, making them last. Syrup dripped onto his chest at one point and I leaned over and licked it off before I could think about it.
Joel's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"What?" I grinned at him. "I'm not wasting good syrup."
His eyes went dark. "You missed some."
"Did I?"
He set the plate aside and reached for the little pitcher on the tray. Before I could react, he'd drizzled a thin line from my collarbone down toward my nipple, the syrup cool against my skin.
"Joel—"
His mouth followed the trail, tongue hot and wet, licking in broad strokes that made my cock twitch against my thigh. He reached my nipple and sucked it into his mouth, teeth grazing the edge, and I arched off the bed with a groan.
"Good?" he asked, pulling back. His lips were shiny.
"Fuck you."
"That's not an answer." But he was smiling, actually smiling, and it changed his whole face. He looked younger. Lighter. Like someone I was only beginning to meet.
I grabbed the pitcher from his hand. "My turn."
"Red—"
I pushed him onto his back and straddled his thighs, pinning him down. He let me, which was its own kind of gift. I drizzled syrup across his stomach, a lazy zigzag over the muscles there, then lower, following the trail of dark hair beneath his navel.
Joel sucked in a breath. His cock was hard, and I let the syrup drip close but not quite there.
"You're a tease," he said.
"I'm thorough." I licked the syrup off his stomach, taking my time, and the muscles jumped under my tongue.
His hand fisted in my hair and I let him guide me lower, following the sticky trail to where it pooled in the crease of his hip.
I sucked the skin there and he made a sound that went straight to my cock.
"You missed a spot," he managed.
"Where?"
He pushed my head down. The syrup had dripped onto his shaft, a glistening line from base to tip, and I looked up at him with my mouth an inch from his cock.
"Cheater," I said.
"You started it."
I licked him clean in one long stroke, base to tip, tasting maple and salt and the bitter edge of pre-cum. Joel's hips jerked and his grip tightened in my hair. I did it again, slower this time, and he swore under his breath.
"Get up here," he said.
I laughed against his skin, and the sound surprised me.
Joel pulled me up and kissed me, syrup-sticky and sweet, and we were both smiling into it.
The tray got shoved aside, plates clattering to the floor, and then we were pressed together, his cock sliding against mine, his hands gripping my ass to pull me closer.
We rocked together slowly, trading maple syrup kisses while the morning sun crept higher. I wrapped my hand around both of us, stroking loose and easy, and Joel groaned into my mouth.
"This is nice," I said against his lips.
"Nice?" He pulled back, mock-offended. "My dick is nice? I’ll have you know this dick has won half a dozen gold medals. It’s an award winning dick.”
I grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his face.
He was laughing underneath it, his whole body shaking, and I was laughing too, holding the pillow down while he made muffled sounds of protest. His hips were still moving against mine, which made the whole thing ridiculous, both of us hard and grinding together while I tried to smother him.
"I hate you."
"No you don't." He tossed the pillow aside and pulled me back down, kissing me deep and slow.
He was right. I really didn't.
We found our rhythm again, hips rolling together, my hand working us both. The laughter faded into warmth, into heat that built slow in my belly and spread outward. Joel's breath came faster against my mouth. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck—" His head pressed back into the pillow, throat exposed, and I couldn't help myself. I bit down on the tendon there, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and he made a sound that was half laugh, half moan.
"Sorry," I said against his skin, not sorry at all.
"No you're not." But his hand came up to hold me there, fingers threading through my hair, keeping my mouth on his throat. “Don’t you dare be sorry.”
His hips snapped up and he came with my name on his lips, my real name, Robert, and I wanted to live inside that sound.
The sight of him like that, wrecked and laughing and mine, pushed me over the edge.
I followed him with a groan, adding to the mess between us, my whole body going loose and heavy on top of his.
We lay there catching our breath, both of us grinning like idiots. Joel's hand stroked up my spine lazily, and I pressed my smile into his neck.
For a while we just laid there, sticky with syrup and sweat and cum, too satisfied to move.
"We should shower," Joel said eventually.
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
"Swim first?" he asked. "The pool's warm in the morning."
I lifted my head and looked at him. His hair was wrecked, sticking up on one side, his lips swollen, a streak of syrup still visible on his jaw.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
The pool was warm, just like he'd promised. I floated on my back and let the morning light catch the water, turning everything gold and blue.
Joel had gone inside to grab towels. The sliding door opened and closed, his footsteps crossed the tile, and then silence.
"Robert."
I lifted my head. Joel was standing at the edge of the pool, two towels over his arm, staring at me with his jaw tight and his eyes murderous.
"Yeah?"
"You absolute motherfucker."
I grinned. "What?"
He turned his head, showing me his neck. The hickey was dark and obvious, a bruise the size of a quarter sitting right above his collarbone. No shirt collar would hide it. No amount of makeup would cover it completely.
"Oops," I said.
"Oops." He set the towels down on a lounge chair. "You did that on purpose."
"I did that because you told me to." I pushed off from the wall, treading water. "You held my head there. You wanted it."
"I wanted—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "I'm going to kill you."
"You're going to have to catch me first."
He dove in.
The splash hit me before I could move, and then he was underwater, a dark shape cutting toward me, and I scrambled backward with a yelp that was not dignified.
His hand closed around my ankle and yanked, pulling me under, and I came up sputtering and laughing while he surfaced next to me with murder in his eyes.
"You think this is funny?" he demanded.
"Little bit, yeah."
He lunged. I dodged. We chased each other around the pool, Joel faster in the water than I expected but me slipperier, twisting away every time he got a hand on me.
"Stand still," he growled.
"Make me."