Chapter 22 #2
His lips brush my earlobe, and he whispers, “You’re going to be very, very quiet. And I’m going to try everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Then he drops to his knees and works my belt, button, and zipper open.
I’m already hard, obviously. I know him too well to get stage fright any more.
“Damn, he looks so good down there.”
He shushes me, and I realise I’ve said that out loud.
Oh no, I’m in so much trouble.
“I will always take the knee for my king,” he whispers.
Okay, I was wrong. Earlier, when we were at the bar, I thought things couldn’t be any more perfect . . . I was wrong. This is the most perfect that anything could ever, ever be.
He shoves my boxers down, takes my cock in his hand, and wastes no time licking a line from the base right to the tip.
I already have my fist jammed into my mouth to stem any involuntary moans.
“Mmm, avocado,” he jokes.
I snort laugh, but at that moment the whining, creaking sound of the bathroom door swinging inwards fills the space, and gentle footsteps—trainer-clad feet, I expect—walk into the room and slap across the tiles.
Lando presses his finger over his lips, holds my gaze for two, three, four seconds, and then takes the head of my cock into his mouth.
My eyes roll upwards, slam themselves shut, and my hands shoot outwards to brace myself against the cubicle walls as he starts a torturously slow rhythm down and up, down and up.
I’ll need to get a breakdown of his actions later so I can repeat it.
It feels like I’m hitting the soft palate at the back of his throat, but what is that thing he’s doing with his tongue? Oh my god.
I don’t have a clue if the bathroom’s other visitor is still in here, or if they’ve finished, washed and dried their hands, and left. I haven’t heard anyone, but I can’t focus on anything else right now besides Orlando on his knees for me.
My trousers give up their pointless endeavour to stay aloft and drop to the ground. My belt buckle crashes on the tiles, echoes, but Lando doesn’t relent.
He’s very good at this. When he looks up and catches my eye, I cry out, and slap a palm over my mouth.
Lando’s eyes crinkle where he smiles.
“Oh my god,” I say in the quietest voice possible. “You have to slow down. It feels too good.”
He does slow down, which provides a little relief, but he also starts stroking the base of my cock and cups my balls with his other hand.
I have no control over the noises that escape my throat.
I scrunch up the bottom of my T-shirt and stuff it into my mouth like a gag.
This helps. It’s more difficult to see Lando now, with my shirt pulled up and in the way, but that can only be a good thing.
Looking at him in all his perfection is sending me hurtling towards the edge too quickly.
He’s just so fucking beautiful with those full lips stretched over me. Fat and wet and . . .
Oh no.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him, but it’s no use. I still see him. I see the photo of his asshole in lace panties that he took on Halloween. I see his ethereal face covered in my cum around the back of Owen’s pub.
And it’s too late.
I spit my shirt out. “I’m gonna come,” I whisper. Or at least I hope it’s a whisper.
Lando doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away from me, and I guess he’s okay with getting cum in his mouth.
I cup his face and brush my thumbs over his cheeks as my orgasm whites out my vision. I try to be as silent as possible, but fuck, it feels so fucking good.
Eventually, Lando separates from me and swallows. He stays on his knees for at least ten seconds, just gazing up at me. My dick hangs fat, shining, and wet between us.
“That was unreal,” I whisper.
I’m hyperaware of how quiet it is in this bathroom now, and what kind of racket I must have been making.
“You’re welcome.” He stands up and lightly slaps my cheek, then pinches it.
“Do you want . . . need . . . anything,” I start.
“Later, okay?”
I nod. This would actually be easier, less awkward, and a lot less pressure if I could practise it in the comfort of one of our bedrooms.
“I’m gonna head back out there now,” he says. “You need to give it a few minutes before leaving so that your face can get less blotchy,” Lando says.
I put my hands to my cheeks. They’re warm and sweaty. “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Lando watches me for a few seconds, a soft smile playing around his mouth. He’s probably proud of himself, of his achievements, of the amount of noise I ended up making despite my best efforts to remain silent. Then he turns to leave.
“Hey, Lando?” I say, pulling him back before he opens the door. “What does cum taste like?”
He cocks his head to the side, curious. “You’ve never tasted your own?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never swiped a finger over your stomach and licked it?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Next time, I’ll save some . . . and we can snowball,” he says.
“Snowball? What’s that?”
Lando doesn’t reply. He winks at me instead, turns, and leaves.
A moment later and cool as a cucumber, he says, “Oh, hi, Pi.”
Nooooooo.
No. Pi’s there? Pi heard everything?
“Hey there, Lando,” Pi replies, his voice cutting through the awkward stillness of the bathroom. “Is my best friend in there with you?” Lando must nod, because the next second Pi says, “How ya going, Abs?”
I facepalm, pull up my trousers, buckle my belt, and leave the stall. Pi’s just finishing up at the urinal.
“Alright, mate?” I say, desperately avoiding looking at him because I know with unequivocal certainty that if we lock eyes, I’ll explode into a hideous ball of liquid magma and cause hundreds of thousands of pounds of damage. Lando has long gone.
Pi moves over to the sinks, and I semi-follow him.
“So . . . uh, how much of that did you hear?” I’m tugging on my ear as though I might unlock a secret chamber I could crawl into and die.
“Everything, mate,” Pi says, staring at me in the mirror. “I heard everything. And it’s disgusting, by the way.”
“What?!” Great, my best friend thinks I’m a pervert.
“Cum.”
Oh.
Ohh.
“It tastes disgusting,” he says. “Girls are lying to spare our feelings. It tastes like . . . Mate, have you ever been writing Christmas cards and you’ve got about a hundred envelopes to lick, and there’s always like one or two envelopes that, after you lick them, you want to slice your tongue off and lob it out of the window? ”
“The fuck?”
“That’s what cum tastes like.” He shudders and wipes his clean hands on his jeans.
“Best to line up the nozzle with the back of your throat before you spray the cream. If you know what I mean.” He pats my shoulder, and then he’s gone too, and I’m standing alone in the bathroom feeling sated, and bewildered, and like everything I know about my best friend is a lie.
When I return to the bar area, Lando is by himself. I always find it odd how comfortable he is to be solitary. Not looking at his phone, not trying to muscle in on anyone else’s conversation, just leaning against a pillar, people watching and sipping his drink, entirely at ease.
“I told Daze and Serasi they could go home, but they were my ride. Can I hitch a lift with you?” he says.
“Of course. You coming back to mine, yeah? I was gonna get a taxi, though, because it’s only around the corner and I’ve had a few already.”
“Sounds good. You want another beer?”
We find an empty table close to the window, and we hang out for a bit longer.
Families leave, and eventually what’s left is mostly players and their partners, until they all start ducking out in ones or twos.
I order us a taxi, and we wait under the shelter of the stadium’s portico, canopy, whatever the fuck those overhangs are called.
It’s freezing now that I don’t have the blanket of adrenaline to keep me toasty.
The ride back to my apartment takes ten minutes, but something is off with Lando. He sits facing away from me, staring out at the lashing rain with his chin on his hand.
“Everything okay?” I say as soon as we cross the threshold of my flat.
“Yeah,” he says—lies.
Something must have happened between the time he left the bathroom and when I got back to the bar.
Something with Lionel? Something with Daisy? Or was it me?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Lando just stares at me as he hangs up his coat and pulls off his boots. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he says after a few moments.
My heart is in my throat. “Why?” Holy shit, is he breaking up with me?
Can he even break up with me if we’re not actually dating?
“I know I promised that you could practise . . . that thing . . . on me, but . . .”
“Oh.” I’m so relieved he’s not mad at me, I almost crumple to my knees. “Oh my god, is that why you were so quiet in the taxi? We don’t have to do anything like that.”
“But . . . I promised,” he says. His eyes are rimmed with pink. It’s affected him more than it should have.
“So? I don’t care. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want.”
He blinks at me.
“You’re allowed to change your mind,” I say.
Lando’s lip wobbles, and he jams his thumbnail between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh my fucking god, you don’t need to apologise. You’re literally my best friend.” Sorry, Pi, but it’s true. “I’m not going to force myself on you. If you don’t want to do shit, we don’t do shit. Okay?”
He sniffs and nods, but doesn’t look fully convinced. There’s something else going on underneath all of this, bubbling away under the surface, but I don’t think now is the right time to start digging.
“You tell me when slash if you’re ready for . . . that kind of stuff. And if you’re never ready, that’s also fine. I never practice BJs on Pi, and we’re still good friends.”
Lando laughs, and the relief I feel in my gut is overwhelming.
“Let’s just watch a movie instead. I’m thinking Die Hard or Ten Things I Hate About You or National Treasure?”
He’s laughing even more, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “What a selection.”