26
"Hey..." Rome said, nudging me after we'd watched several episodes of the Sopranos and dozed off to Rick and Morty. He hadn't smoked once since I arrived, and I imagined he was ready to rectify that.
"Hey," I sighed, gazing over at him. Our eyes locked for several uncertain seconds, before his fluttered closed. He rested his forehead on my shoulder and I brushed my cheek against his hair.
"Rafe..."
"Hm?"
"What'd you do yesterday? You have a good day?"
"Mm-hm," I nodded, even though he couldn't see. "Had lunch and a bit of shopping...golfed a little. And, uh...made a few phone calls, I think. Nothing too crazy. How was your day?"
"It was alright, I suppose. Made a few calls too, y'know?"
"Mm-hm."
"Stuff with the label. The usual."
"Business as usual," I said, feeling anticipatory of his next move.
"How's the writin' comin' along?"
"I got a good bit of help from a few new guys I met. Trying to toss together a band or something," I laughed. "It might work. But I'll have to hold off soon."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I got that Spielberg thing, remember? The World War II miniseries."
"Oh, that's right…the Spielberg thing. So, it's a sure thing, yeah?"
"Looks like."
"Good, babe."
A catharsis washed over me when he finally said it. Babe. Why didn't he hold back this time? It had been casually intimate. Unreserved. What a relief.
"You gonna be a massive movie star or somethin'?" he snickered, sitting up to look me in the eye.
"We'll see how it goes," I shrugged. "I might be shit."
"No, I doubt it. You're really good."
"You don't know that."
"But I do."
"D’you reckon?"
"You're really good with things."
"With things?"
"Yeah, with tings. Always were. Whatever you, like, set your mind to. I've seen it."
He relaxed against me, becoming heavier and more trusting by the moment.
"I appreciate that."
He watched my lips. I licked them self-consciously.
"You tired?" he murmured.
"Yeah. Kind of..."
"Then let's get comfortable." He rose, but before I could follow, told me to give him a second.
***
When he returned, he was unspeaking. He held out a hand and I accepted, my insides leaping as his palm enclosed my fingers.
It was happening. Something was happening.
No more pretense. No more begging to be kissed.
He was taking me to his room. Their room, I corrected myself.
But then another part of me shot it down and repeated, his room.
He wanted me there. He had invited me and was now leading me there, hand in hand.
My knees grew weak halfway down the hall, registering the familiar paintings and the collage of Polaroids from my first visit.
Registering the perpetual chill of the polished concrete at my feet.
Feeling him stroke my fingers. Inhaling his bodywash.
I nearly collapsed, but knew I had to be strong.
There were only a few more feet and I would be safe in his bed, with him.
Upon entering, it felt like 2016 again, Valentine's Day. He had changed the sheets and shut the drapes and lit several candles around the floor of the room. It was his signature move to lend these moments a sense of occasion, and it got me every time.
Now he brought me bedside and removed the few rings I wore, bunching my fingers together in his palm and kissing them repeatedly.
I panicked. He swept my damp hair behind either shoulder, then reached around and removed my cross necklace—his cheek brushing mine in the process.
I kissed his temple before he retreated, making him smirk.
There was a bottle of whisky on the nightstand and a single tumbler.
I sat on the edge of the bed as directed, and watched him pour a bit of the amber liquid neat, then toss it back with a grimace.
He then poured me a bit, and I downed it right away, hissing through the afterburn.
I drank it quickly because I was afraid to miss his next instruction.
Once I handed him the glass, he poured himself another shot and downed it just as quickly.
I couldn’t stop watching his big, pretty fingers.
I had a second as well, feeling it singe a path to my stomach, trickling down my esophagus like battery acid.
On his third, he kissed me and slowly spilled some into my mouth.
I grabbed the back of his head, gulping every drop, wiping my chin before reclaiming his lips.
His liquor-soaked tongue tasted cool and fiery, and I lapped it up, yanking his hair with both hands.
He drank a bit more—straight from the bottle—and again I drank it from his mouth.
As I finished, he ran a thumb along my bottom lip.
Surprising us both, I drew his finger into my mouth.
The whites of his eyes appeared as he savored the lapping of my warm tongue.
I struggled not to bite down on him in my intoxication.
"Rome..." I objected when he pulled away.
He laid me down across the center of the bed, his fingers scratching at my waistband. He snatched my sweats down my hips, exposing the boner I'd been hiding. His lids fluttered drunkenly, and he expelled a slow, tortured breath. Relishing the sight of me before delving in.
All our blithe conversation and endless reminiscing had come to this—him staring down my cock like the barrel of a gun.
His eyes fluttered again. He seemed reluctant to make a definitive move.
I nearly exploded after being relieved from the sweats, and now throbbed in an achy anticipation, watching him watch it.
Fuck’s sake, they must've been getting reacquainted. Far be it from me to stand in the way.
Now his lips sought the heat of inner thighs.
They pecked unhurriedly, dragging a pillowy trail along either leg, purposefully evading my engorged flesh.
I whimpered, realizing how much I’d missed the tease of his light beard on my skin.
It was a unique sensation I’d only ever experienced with him.
Never the girls, of course. And none of them were able to deep-throat, penetrate, or dominate me the way I desired.
It was always expected of me to lead. To be the initiator, the pursuer.
Somehow he knew exactly what I needed, even after all this time, and was administering it in powerful doses.
He dragged the sweats further down to my ankles before pulling them off altogether. I panted as he lifted my foot and kissed the top of it. Then he kissed my ankle, making a slow trek up my calf towards the insides of my thighs, which I spread for him as far as they would go.
Every part of me tingled. My vision pulsed, fading and returning as I watched the dark head bob about between my legs.
Please...I gasped, so softly he couldn't hear.
His attention slipped past my cock again as he kissed my belly and dipped his tongue into my navel.
That sent an unusual stir through my core and eventually my groin. I winced.
The inquisitive lips moved further, reacquainting themselves with my nipples in a languorous taste test. I rasped, helping him push my shirt above my pecs so he could freely take one into his mouth.
The first few strokes of his tongue made me recoil in insufferable pleasure, the sensation reverberating to my desperate-to-be-touched cock.
My toes curled. I felt the scratchy fabric of his clothes tickling my shaft, and the titillation was so acute I grinded up into him.
"No..." he whispered, demanding I hold still so he could prolong my torment. "I want you crazy for me..."
That was his intent. To drive me as close to the edge as possible without letting me indulge. I'd be trapped, teetering on the verge of gratification as he purposefully skirted the part of me that sought his attention the most. I couldn't help but admire the maddening ploy.
In a flash he crawled down from me, kneeling on the floor, snatching me to my feet as well. My shirt—his shirt—slid down over my belly as his mouth met my erect flesh, ever-so-faintly. Lips parted, they lazed about my length, edging me to death.
"Rome...please..." I begged, strength failing me.
His hands snaked up the back of my thighs in long, decisive strokes.
Working me. Owning me. They slid up the underside of my cheeks, caressing my ass.
I grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, skin prickling from the roots of my scalp to the soles of my feet.
He seemed to meditate, worshipping my body.
Revering it with tender, explorative strokes like unmined gold.
I was so hard I thought my cock might split.
Put it in your mouth, please. I tried to massage myself, but he dragged my hand away.
I fell back onto the bed involuntarily, too weak to remain upright.
That's when he had mercy and took me into his hand at last.
"Shut your eyes..." he demanded.
I lay back across the bed and slung an arm across my face.
He stroked me languidly, firmly, like he had in my dream.
Next there was the cool and swift application of lube and a bit of rubbing to spread it about.
Ugh, yes, fuck yes. Fuck, yes. Don’t stop.
I fucked his hand. Now his tongue, hot and moist, ran up the underside of my shaft to the clammy tip.
I groaned and bent my legs at the knee, curling my toes.
He set my legs apart and crammed me into his mouth as far as I would go.
When he gagged, he took it as a challenge and kept going.
My back and feet arched as he scarfed me entirely, which was not an easy feat.
I was ridiculously well endowed and had trouble finding anyone who knew what to do with me.
His soft, blistering mouth stretched to accommodate me.
Pretty pink lips encircling me for dear life.