30. Marcus #2
I’m a warm sleeper anyway, and Preston seemed to only need my body heat during the night.
“I slept for that long?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though the question seemed more directed at himself.
“I usually can’t.” His husky voice sounds in awe.
“No?”
“No. I watch Tom and Jerry for hours on end to fall asleep.”
I chuckle, raising a brow. “Tom and Jerry, really?”
“Really.” He glares even though red tints his ears. “You better not judge me.”
“I’m not.” I slide my hand a little higher. “Why Tom and Jerry?”
He stares at the door, his breath hitching, then slides his gaze to the ceiling, and his voice sounds distant. “They remind me of the stars. They drown out the noise, and it feels…comforting.”
“What…noise?”
His head jerks in my direction, and his eyes widen before he hides behind the facade he wears so well. “Just noise, I guess. Anyway, it’s rare for me to sleep so soundly for hours.”
“Well, you did. You were even snoring.”
“I do not snore,” he says, sounding so adorably offended, I want to eat him up.
“You were drooling, too.”
“I don’t drool!”
“If you say so.” I grin, ruffling his hair, and his expression ignites with fire.
Then, in a fraction of a second, he jerks up and straddles my waist, slamming my wrist against the headboard. “You have a death wish?”
“Not really.” I grab his waist with my free hand and slam him down until his hardening cock grinds on mine. “Mmm. I do have another wish, though.”
“Oh, fuck.” He rubs himself on my cock, back and forth, the friction through our boxer briefs making it hot and heavy.
“That’s it, baby. Want to ride me?”
“Why does this feel good? Why do you feel so goddamn…fuck… Ungh.”
“Move your hips…yes, just like that…” I thrust against him from the bottom.
“Holy shit…”
My balls fill up just at the view of him looking so heartbreakingly beautiful with that snake looped all over his right side and arm.
“What does this mean?” I ask in a moan as his cock drags around mine. “The snake?”
“Um…unghh…it’s someone from the past.”
“Who?”
“Myself.” His eyes hood, a shine lurking deep, his cock rubbing aggressively against mine through the boxer briefs. “I just couldn’t shed my own skin and this…”
He raises himself up, then sits on my groin, still rubbing our cocks together, but the rhythm is slowed down. With a shaky exhale, he lifts my palm and places it on the fracture in his sternum. “This is why I couldn’t shed that skin. I’m barely stitched together, Marcus. Fucking barely.”
I open my mouth, but he places a hand on it. “Shh, don’t talk, okay? Just make me feel good. You do that so well, Marcus. No one does it like you.”
Christ.
I’m about to flip us over and fuck him, but a noise comes from outside.
Preston is too busy humping my cock to notice it.
Fuck.
I grab his arm and pull him down, then clutch the sheet as a knock echoes in the air.
“Marcus?” The door opens just as I drag the sheet to the middle of our chests.
And sure enough, Mom—who I totally forgot comes home at this time—peeks inside. “Guess what? I brought fresh bagels for breakfast—”
She stares, her mouth hanging open as she takes in the scene, or at least the guy lying in my arms.
Preston’s face is tinting red as his body shivers against mine.
“Morning, Mom,” I say nonchalantly.
“Morning, sweetie.” She clears her throat. “I’ll…see you and your friend downstairs, yeah?”
“See you in a bit,” I say, and she closes the door.
We both remain silent as the sound of her footsteps disappears down the hall.
“Shit…” he mumbles, burying his head in the pillow. “Kill me.”
“I’d rather not.” I slide my fingers in his hair, because I can’t not.
He lifts his head. “Why are you so nonchalant about this? You’re used to your mom walking in on you having sex?”
“No, told you that doesn’t happen here. Until you, that is.”
He bites the corner of his lip. “How…was it when you came out to her? Assuming you did?”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I did officially. She saw me with a guy a couple of years ago, and said, ‘Oh, well, I’m not jealous at all that you have variety while little old me is stuck with men.’ And she air-quoted the word ‘men,’ then rolled her eyes.”
He laughs, the sound making his chest vibrate against mine. “She seems like such a baddie.”
“She is.” I stroke my fingers through his hair. “If your mom were alive, would you ever introduce me?”
He nods absentmindedly. “I guess.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Mom was such a fun person, had so many queer friends, she’d celebrate it, probably throw a big-ass party.” He smiles with a soft look in his eyes.
“So your homophobia didn’t come from your mom.”
“I’m not homophobic. I respect people’s sexualities.”
“Except when it’s you?”
He shrugs. “I just…struggle with it.”
“Why? If you enjoy it so much, why can’t you accept it?”
“It just brings up unwanted thoughts.”
“Like?”
“Nothing.” He clears his throat then stares at me from under his lashes. “I just don’t think I want to come out. Would you…hate that?”
“You don’t have to come out. Not many people like labels. I don’t.”
“I feel like you’re mad when I hide.”
“From me. I get mad when you hide from me, Preston.”
“I will…” He swallows hard. “I’ll try my best not to do that.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” I stand, and he watches me with that hungry look that makes me want to devour him. “Wash up. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“Hold on.” He grabs my hand and then, as if realizing he did it, lets me go hesitantly. “Can’t I just leave through the window or something?”
“She already saw you and wouldn’t like your disappearance.”
“Your mom holds a grudge, too?”
“Who do you think I take after?” I lean down and brush my lips against his forehead. “Don’t stress about it. She’s cool.”
His lips part, and his eyes shift to the color of a bright garden, and I have to turn around so I don’t jump back into that bed and never leave.
After I put on sweatpants and a shirt, I head to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and bagels tickles my nostrils as I slide behind Mom.
She’s still in her pale-pink scrubs, her hair tied in a neat bun, and the usual smell of antiseptic hits me when she gives me a side hug.
“You just sit down. I have everything prepared,” she says.
“I’ll make a quick omelet.”
“Oh, right. You need your protein, my hockey star.”
“So does Preston.”
She smiles at me as I grab eggs and some veggies from the fridge.
As I cut the tomatoes and spinach, Mom leans against the counter, cradling her huge coffee mug that has “Best Nurse Ever” written on it—a gift from her co-workers for her thirtieth birthday.
“You can just say what you’re thinking, Mom.” I let out a sigh as I crack the eggs. “No need to hold your smirk like that.”
“So that was Preston Armstrong!” she whisper-yells. “I thought I was seeing things.”
“You weren’t.”
She hits my shoulder with hers. “Look at you scoring the best-looking man in the league.”
“I thought you said that was me.”
“You know what I mean.”
I beat the eggs, my lips curling in a smile. “You’re not wrong. He is the best-looking man.”
“Right? He looks even better in person. So charming and handsome.”
“Stop drooling, Mom.” I narrow my eyes. “He’s your son’s age, and most importantly, he belongs to me.”
“Hey!” She punches me in the shoulder. “Stop being a little shit. I wasn’t hitting on him.”
“You wouldn’t have stood a chance if you were, anyway.” I mix the vegetables with the eggs. “He prefers me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t go for a middle-aged woman.”
“This motherfucker. Are you calling me old?”
“You are old.”
“Very rude.” She scoffs. “I’ll be reporting you for parent abuse.”
“That doesn’t exist, Mom.”
“I’ll make sure it does.”
I laugh, shaking my head, and she joins me, then takes a sip of her coffee. “I’m glad to see you happy. It feels rare.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m always happy.”
“You’re always living, yes, but happy? I don’t think so.” She strokes my arm. “You’re well aware he’s one of them, though, right?”
“Them?”
“Those like your dad and sister. Them. The people who would wear our skins like designer bags if given the chance.”
“He might have been brought up in their midst, but he’s not like them.”
A flash of sadness covers her eyes. “That’s what I used to think of your dad as well, but I was sorely mistaken.”
“Preston is nothing like Dad. He might put up a facade, but he cares, whereas Dad pretends to care, when, in reality, he doesn’t.”
“I hope you’re right.” A small smile paints her lips. “I just don’t want you to get hurt like I was.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I know he’s different. When I met him at Dad’s house, the first and last time I went there, he gave me mango candy and wished me a happy birthday, and sometimes I still see traces of that younger version in him.”
“Aw, he was your first crush?”
I pause. “What?”
“You told me all about him on the way back, remember? You kept talking nonstop about this golden-haired prince-like boy you met in the garden.” She grins. “You even asked me if you could marry him when you grew up.”
“I…did?”