Chapter Thirteen #3
“Yes. Exactly. You’re welcome.” This isn’t even a fair characterization of what Simon likes.
He doesn’t hate topping, and even likes it under certain circumstances, but none of those circumstances are applicable when he has Charlie Blake in his bed for one night only.
He knows exactly what he wants, and he does not have the faintest fucking idea why he’s suddenly coy about it, except that he simply cannot open his mouth and ask Charlie to fuck him.
“There’s condoms and lube in my suitcase.
” He waves a hand and hopes Charlie realizes it’s an order.
Charlie does realize it’s an order. When he gets back into bed, he kisses the exposed side of Simon’s neck, his hand sliding
low on Simon’s belly, his chest pressed against Simon’s back. “What I’m hearing is that you want me to fuck you real nice.”
Simon tries to smother himself with the pillow so Charlie can’t hear whatever sound he just made, but there’s no way Charlie
missed the way Simon’s body reacted to that. At least Simon doesn’t need to explain anymore.
Charlie keeps kissing him, his mouth warm and slow on Simon’s neck, his hips rolling against Simon’s, his touch just a little
too light, like he’s being careful. It’s exactly what Simon wants, and it’s only a complete inability to be normal that makes
him speak. “But what do you want?” Simon asks, his voice sounding far away. “We didn’t talk about that.”
“Oh my God,” Charlie whispers into Simon’s skin. “Can you get out of your own way for two seconds?”
“Probably not,” Simon says, honest.
“Baby, what I really want is to see what happens when I give you what you want.”
It’s not the first time anyone’s called Simon baby.
It is, however, the first time it doesn’t make him want to get dressed and go home.
Usually, that sort of thing—sweetheart, baby, darling—makes Simon think he’s dealing with a case of mistaken identity.
Like they’ve forgotten who they have in their bed because Simon is just not the kind of person who inspires baby. He doesn’t like being lied to.
But when Charlie says it, there’s a bit of a tease, like he knows perfectly well that Simon’s about to riot and is daring
him to try. It’s also undeniably nice, like Charlie’s following orders while also being impossible. Simon buries his face in the pillow and groans.
Charlie’s kissing the back of Simon’s jaw, the curve of his shoulder, the spot behind his ear. He can feel Charlie, hard,
pressing into the small of his back. He can feel Charlie’s weight, and it sends a jolt of desire down his spine.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles into the pillow. He keeps his face there, pretending he’s invisible, and lets his universe collapse
into the feel of Charlie’s fingers, Charlie’s mouth on Simon’s spine.
Charlie doesn’t make him roll over, just pushes him onto his side a little and gets a hand behind one of his knees. The intimacy
of that—Charlie’s hand on the back of his knee—is startling, somehow, despite everywhere else he’s touched Simon tonight.
Simon moves where Charlie puts him, and if this is the most compliant Simon’s been in his life, then that’s just a coincidence.
Nothing to do with Charlie, nothing to do with that’s it, baby, just like that, so good. Simon asked for nice, but he didn’t count on nice being weaponized.
And it is nice, it starts out really fucking sweet, and Simon’s absolutely still hiding his face in that pillow, but he also
flings a hand out, and Charlie grabs it, holding it to the mattress. It starts out nice, and maybe it even stays that way
when Simon’s on his knees, holding on to the headboard, his thoughts dissolving in the onslaught of so good, look at you.
After, he collapses, boneless, brainless. That was too intense. It was tender, which isn’t even something Simon does. It shouldn’t have been like that—it should have been fun. Yesterday was fun. He’ll
be embarrassed about it tomorrow. But they’re leaving tomorrow, which is just as well.
Right now, though, Charlie’s next to him, motionless, one heavy arm flung over Simon’s back. It’s not cuddling. It’s one arm.
And it’s only there because that’s where it landed.
Simon opens his eyes, takes in Charlie’s profile. The only light is whatever’s leaking in from the motel parking lot, around
the edges of the curtains, but it’s enough to make out the shape of the tattoos on Charlie’s arm and chest, the one on the
top of his thigh. He can see the flower on Charlie’s chest. On the arm that doesn’t have the swirl of stars, there are the
two moons and a bird in flight that’s the symbol of the rebel group on Out There. Lian locked herself in her office the day Charlie showed up with that one. Scattered up and down his left forearm are what
look like stick-and-poke tattoos—vines, mountains, a wonky-looking lizard. Since they’re all on his left arm, Simon guesses
Charlie did them himself.
Simon’s seen them all, even the tattoo high on Charlie’s thigh, dozens of times, could map them out blindfolded. It feels
a little dangerous, knowing that the map of Charlie’s body has gotten into his mind without his wanting it, knowing that Charlie
has tangled himself around Simon’s psyche. It makes him wonder, for the first time, how hard it will be to cut himself free.