10. Face-First #5
There was nothing careful left in either of us.
He sucked me hard and fast from below, hands gripping my ass, pulling me down into his mouth, and I matched him, my fist working what my mouth couldn't, his precum bitter-bright on my tongue, both of us racing now, sloppy, loud, the wet sounds of it filling the little room along with the bedframe's complaints, sweat dripping off me onto him, his thighs trembling under my forearms.
He tore his mouth off me for half a second. "I'm so close?—"
"Me too." I got it out around him and went back down.
We finished it with hands and mouths together, jerking each other through it, and it hit us seconds apart.
He came first. His whole body locked, back arching up off the bed under me, and a grunt ripped out of him, loud, raw, no towel in the world could have muffled it, and his cock jerked in my mouth and he was cumming, hot thick spurts of cum hitting my tongue faster than I could swallow, spilling past my lips, over my fist, and a rope of it catching my cheek and jaw when I pulled back for air.
"Fuck—fuck—" It came out of me mangled, barely words, my mouth still full of him, and the taste and the pulse and the sound of him undid me mid-stroke.
The heat detonated up my spine and I came harder than I had in years, louder than him, a shout I buried against his thigh a half-second too late, my cock pumping cum into his open mouth and past it, over his lips, his chin, thick ropes landing on his shoulder and down across his chest where the scar sat, his hand milking me through every spurt while his own hips still twitched under my forearm.
The little room stank of sweat and cum and the two of us, the sheets soaked warm beneath, and we shook against each other through the aftershocks until neither of us could take another second of touch.
I rolled off him sideways and we lay there crossways on the ruined bed, wrong way around to each other, chests heaving, covered in cum, spent.
The ceiling did nothing for a while. The heater ticked. Somewhere down the hall the bass was still playing its song with no song.
He laughed first. A small breathless huff, and I turned my head and found him grinning at the ceiling with my cum drying on his chin, and the huff caught in me too, and for a minute we lay there in the wreckage laughing at nothing, at everything, at the bed.
"I was not expecting—" He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, still catching air. "My first time. To go like that. That was—God. So good. That was so good."
"Come on." I made my legs work and found the stack of towels somebody had left folded on the chair for the shared bathrooms. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"I mean it, that was, the last part, the part where you—and the thing with the edge of the bed, I didn't even know I could, I just had a theory, I've had it since roughly yesterday and I want it noted the theory was sound, and your mouth, Caleb, your mouth should be?—"
I threw the towel at his face.
It landed square and hung there, draping his whole head like a bad Halloween costume, and the rambling stopped dead underneath it. One second. Two. The towel didn't move.
Then it shook, and the laugh came up through it, muffled and helpless, and mine came out to meet it, and we sat there on a destroyed single bed at ten at night laughing like idiots, him still wearing the towel, and I thought, this. Whatever else came through that warehouse wall in eight days. This.
We cleaned up. Traded the towel back and forth, wiped each other down where reach failed, and the wiping turned to touching more than once and got firmly reclassified as counterproductive. Then we fought the blanket out from under ourselves and got into a bed built for one.
He fit himself along my side, his head on my shoulder, one leg thrown over mine, and his fingertips drew slow shapes on my chest that never resolved into anything.
I pressed my mouth into his hair. He tilted his face up and caught my jaw instead, lazy, unhurried kisses with no engine behind them, just contact, and between them his breathing stretched longer and longer, and the shapes on my chest slowed, and stopped, and his hand went heavy.
He didn't say anything else. The man who'd told me his brain had a dimmer instead of an off switch, and that the dimmer was broken, lay against me in a silence he wasn't fighting, and I listened to it the way you'd listen for the sound of a thing you never thought you'd hear.
On the chair, the two papers sat folded where I'd set them. A dead man and a sleeping one. Ours now, both of them, jointly held, the first thing we'd ever agreed to carry together, and eight days away a warehouse was waiting.
Ghost's breathing slowed against my neck, evened out, and dropped into sleep all at once, no glide, a man who'd been running on fumes since 6:40 in the morning finally letting the engine die.
I lay in the dark and did not need the breathing count. No in through the nose. No hold. No slow release. I just breathed, unsupervised, for the first time in five days, and I followed him down.