Chapter 13 #2
Harrison never broke eye contact, never wiped that smile off his face, but he stepped back from me, picked up a bottle of shampoo, and poured a generous amount into his hand. He brought his hand to my head and began to rub it over my hair, spreading foam through it before doing the same to himself.
I let him, silently, as new questions welled behind my closed lips.
Was he not into it? Would he rather fuck me instead?
Would I want that? I wasn’t afraid of trying; I was afraid of failing, discovering that it wasn’t at all what I wanted, and effectively making this weird and wild thing impossible.
I didn’t want it to end.
Water poured down on us, washing out the shampoo, but Harrison was busy with the bodywash, rubbing it over his muscles, then pulling me close and doing the same to me.
He turned me around, after a few moments, and pressed his chest against my back, hands moving down my front as the bodywash foamed over my muscles.
His hand didn’t stop when he reached my abdomen, and he wrapped it around my hard dick, giving it a teasing stroke that went no further.
His other hand, just as naughty, moved down my back and between my cheeks, passing gently over my hole and shooting me with a sensation of such tension, such tautness, that I was near the snapping point.
Harrison was gentle, but he was thorough.
He rubbed my muscles, massaged my back, and even knelt behind me to knead my thighs with slippery fingers, rubbing the tensions away.
The temptation to turn around and face him, to see him on his knees and looking up, was so strong that I almost did just that, but I resisted it.
I resisted it because I thought he was going somewhere with this, and I was too curious to see where.
When he had touched every last part of me, when he had covered me in foamy bodywash and rubbed me clean under the hot shower, he stood and touched my shoulder, turning me around to face him. “There,” he said. “You can get us some music and wine.”
I blinked and stared at him. “What about…?”
Harrison laughed. “We have the whole night, Taylor. And you need to give me twenty minutes if you expect me to bottom for you.”
“Oh. Oh.” I nodded, my heart tripping. There was something incredibly hot about the secrecy around it, the subtleness, the mystery.
I lived in a house that was pretty evenly split between the straights, the gays, and the bisexuals, so it wasn’t a wholly novel concept.
It just hadn’t occurred to me sooner that spontaneous sex wasn’t so spontaneous for queer men. “Kiss me, and I’ll go,” I said.
Harrison cupped my cheek and pulled me in, kissing me deeply until my knees were weak. I could get used to this. I could very much get used to his lips on mine, his mustache burning my smooth skin, and his muscular arms wrapping around my body.
He spanked my ass lightly as I turned away from him, and it surprised me.
More than that, it felt oddly good. The sting was barely noticeable, but the intent was clear and firm and hot, a reminder that Harrison was a big, bulky man with a strong hand and a clear interest in my ass.
Or a curiosity about it, at least. And it made me wonder, as I toweled myself dry and stepped out of the bathroom, naked and flushed, if bottoming for him was something I’d want to try.
If I were to try it for anyone, it would be for him. I’d never had even a passing curiosity to play with myself like that, but if it set Harrison’s eyes aflame and made him grunt and moan and turn red, it would be worth the effort.
Even the passing thought alone made my dick harder, and it had only just gone soft for the first time since he’d told me to take my shirt off.
In his bedroom, I opened the massive wardrobe and looked through the shelves of elegant pants, a long rack of fitted shirts, a shelf of expensive shoes, a displayed box of cufflinks, a collection of sunglasses.
Dammit, where were his couch-potato-stays-inside clothes?
I went from one door to the other, opening the wings and examining his things without much concern that Harrison would mind me snooping around.
It was a freeing feeling, and doing this distracted me from the aching erection and the breathtaking heat coiling inside my chest.
Behind one of the doors were shelves I’d been searching for, with T-shirts and stacks of sweatpants that looked like they’d never been worn, and below them, drawers.
I wondered if opening his drawers was a step too far.
Then I wondered how he might react if he began to undress me, only to see his own underwear on me.
I went for it, but ended up proving my nerves right.
Though his boxer briefs were all stacked neatly on the left side of the wide drawer, the right side contained items that were much more interesting.
A predictably large bottle of lube, a box of condoms, plugs in three sizes, a long string of beads that went from grape- to golf-ball-sized, dildos that looked like they required a good deal of training to handle, a vibrator, handcuffs, a mouth gag, a blindfold, and an entire assortment of strips of silk.
I picked up the top pair of boxer briefs, black with an orange waistband, and pulled them up my legs until my dick was packed hard inside the soft, quality fabric.
These felt much nicer than the brand I wore.
Then again, I never paid much attention to brands.
The sweatpants had the same advantage, on top of clearly never having been worn much around here, and the T-shirt was light and airy.
Now I found myself going into the kitchen, entirely dressed in Harrison’s clothes.
They were a size or two bigger than my fit, but I wore loose and baggy clothes when I wanted to be comfortable, so it was a familiar feeling.
I grabbed a bottle of the same wine we’d had the first time I’d come here and carried it together with two glasses and a corkscrew to Harrison’s mid-century modern living room, where a pothos hung from a basket in the corner, its green leaves streaked with white.
I walked over to the record player and searched through Harrison’s collection.
There were several vinyl records from Pink Floyd, one being a white brick wall with the album title printed over it like graffiti, and the other being an iconic beam of white light refracting through a pyramid, then shooting on the other side as a rainbow.
I returned the wall one back and carefully took The Dark Side of the Moon from the cover.
I placed the vinyl in its spot and tinkered with the buttons until the record began to spin, and the needle moved automatically to the starting position.
A faint crackling came from the speaker, soon transitioning into the unforgettable progressive and psychedelic rock snippets, starting with an unsettling heartbeat, on the opening “Speak to Me” track.
Soft footsteps pattered against the floor behind me, skin on the parquet.
They stopped, and I looked over my shoulder to see Harrison leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, head leaning gently against the frame, as well.
He wore a pair of pants and nothing else.
He watched me as the next track started.
“Good choice,” he said. “My favorite album.”
“I had a feeling it might be,” I said. “The cover’s so worn-out.”
“I don’t keep the things I love in mint condition,” Harrison said, his gaze never leaving my eyes. He cracked a smile. “I wear them out and spend all they’ve got.”
“And they love every second of it,” I teased.
Harrison’s eyes glimmered with something like amusement. “There’s a total solar eclipse coming in a couple of months. I was planning to go.”
Was planning. With Emma? I didn’t let that distract me. Time and space existed outside of our little bubble tonight. They went on just fine without us, and I was determined to savor our brief emancipation for reality for all that it was.
As if by instinct, I glanced at the corkboard on his wall and found Emma looking at us, laughing, in the picture. He’d moved it to the corner.
Harrison pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped into the living room, where only the dim lights of his lamps cast the deepest of the shadows away.
He walked over to where I stood by the record player, then cast his gaze down my entire body, lifting my T-shirt a few inches above my waist and seeing the unmistakable orange waistband of his own underwear.
“How’d you like my stuff?” he asked with a wicked smile touching the corners of his lips.
“Stuff? I didn’t see any stuff,” I said. “Surely, nothing unseemly.”
He chuckled deep in his throat and closed his fist around my T-shirt, pulling me in for a kiss.
It was a slow, deliberate one, lingering and sending ripples of confusing, heated feelings through my body.
When he let go, I leaned toward him, my legs turning to jelly.
Kiss me more, I wanted to say, but Harrison’s amused expression promised that he would torment me a while longer.
He sidestepped me and picked up the bottle and the corkscrew, then got busy with opening it and pouring us a glass of wine each.
He handed me a glass as the next track began. “‘On the Run,’” I said, recalling the name of the song.
“You know your music,” Harrison said.
“Dad was relentless in handing down the obsession with Pink Floyd. It’s my inheritance, basically.
” It was difficult to make the words follow one another in the right order.
It was difficult to think in the right order, too.
He stood there, shirtless, hair wet from the shower, skin still damp, pants hanging low around his waist, and Apollo’s belt so prominently framing his abdomen.
“You’re not drinking your wine,” I said as I watched him hold it, his gaze never leaving me.