Chapter 19
the nineteenth chapter
MARK
Just when we thought we might be left in the dark, the lights glow above us. A tiny fridge in the corner of Porter's room hums to life.
“Power must be back on,” he grins. “And I know exactly what we should do with that hot water, now that I've got you all to myself.”
“Give Franko's kitchen a spring clean?” I suggest.
But the look in my eyes is far from innocent.
“Tempting, but no,” Porter smirks.
He lifts me over his shoulder, both of us naked, and carries me down the hallway.
The shower head sputters at first, taking a little longer than usual to warm up.
Steam rises toward the ceiling vent.
We rummage inside the bathroom cabinet to find clean towels.
I jam a wedge under the door for privacy.
He opens a zippered pouch to retrieve a generous sachet of something sticky.
Hope that means what I think it does.
The anticipation is killing me.
◆◆◆
A couple of hours ago when the guys left, we pounced.
Porter taught me how to give him a handy.
I’ve given myself plenty of those since I got my first hard on.
But this was different.
The best part was when we did it at the same time.
My hand on his dick, his hand on mine.
So damn good to feel that cum on my wrist.
And then he let me lick it.
Just around the head, but I’m still on such a high.
He told me that if I’m a good boy, he might let me put it in my mouth next time.
Maybe I’ll be good.
Maybe not.
Can’t take my eyes off that ass, either.
I wonder when he’ll let me put my…
“Fuck, you're gorgeous,” Porter murmurs in my ear.
“I guess you're okay,” I tease.
I earn a butt grab for saying it.
“It's been hell trying to keep my hands off you this last couple of weeks,” he says.
“Thought you’d forgotten about me.”
“Not for a minute.”
I hate the way he puts up walls whenever the other guys are around.
Made me wonder if I’d simply imagined the crush as mutual.
Until last night, obviously.
“Sorry if I seem like a jerk sometimes,” Porter mumbled.
He presses my back against the wall of the cubicle, kissing me gently.
I pull the shower curtain across the railing.
“Gonna make it up to me?”
“That’s my intention.”
We step beneath the water.
He hooks a hand beneath my thigh, raising it to his hip.
“You liked it when I fingered you before?”
“So much,” I nod.
And it feels just as good as I remember.
But I want so much more than that.
He seems to read my mind.
Filling his palm with goo from the pouch, he makes his knob all glossy.
I can’t resist.
I’ve gotta touch it.
With a sharp exhale, he pushes me back.
“Go easy on me,” he begs. “I won’t last long if you do that.”
Leaning forward against the wall, I give myself a yank instead.
Porter likes to watch.
I can tell by the way his breathing grows heavy.
He fingers my ass while I play.
“I wanna be inside you so bad,” he whimpers.
“How bad?”
“I mean, I've thought about it heaps. But…”
“Don’t be nervous.” I turn my head for a kiss. “We'll figure it out.”
“Spilled a whole bag of rice the other day when you bent over to lift a crate.”
“I saw you sweeping it up,” I laugh. “That was my fault?”
“Entirely your fault,” he scolds. “Those pants provoke naughty thoughts.”
He adds a second finger now, causing my breath to stall.
“Ahhh…”
Eyes closed, I rest my head against the tiles.
“Porter…” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
I can tell he’s still nervous.
“Are you gonna fuck me?”
“Uh huh. Turn around. Lift your leg again.”
◆◆◆
Cock firm in his hand, he teases between my cheeks.
I’ve been jacking off to steamy videos every night.
I know he does the same, cos I can hear him through the wall.
And they’ve taught me a few things.
I know this might hurt, having him inside me.
So I brace myself for the pain.
But Porter takes it nice and slow.
Easing himself in and out, in and out.
Inch by inch.
“Ohhh…” I moan.
“Like it?”
“Like it. Slow is good. Slow is good…”
“Fuck…” Porter gasps. “That tight little virgin ass.”
Soon he’s all the way in.
We find our rhythm.
His pelvis is warm against my nuts.
Is this really happening?
Am I dreaming?
“Mark…”
Hearing him say my name like that?
I could listen to it for hours.
I want him to say it again.
“Turn around,” he says. “Turn around.”
Chest against the wall, I spread my legs a little.
“Like that?”
“Good. Now bend for me.”
He enters with more confidence this time.
“Go deeper,” I tell him. “I can handle it.”
Holding me by the hips, he increases the tempo.
“Ohh… ohhh...”
I’m hungry for it. Ravenous.
“More of that. Do more of that.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck me the way you wanted to when you spilled that rice.”
Porter grips my shoulder, plowing into me until I cry out.
“Mark…” he groans in my ear.
I think of every wicked word I’ve heard in those videos.
Pound me with that cock.
Fuck that tight little hole.
Give it to me raw.
“Mark… fuck… ohhh fuck…”
I’ve never been more grateful for far away rugby fields.
And empty restaurants.
We go at it like rabbits until the water runs cold.
Even then, we can’t get enough.
With a twist of the tap we keep going, hoping like heck that no one can hear us.
This is the best day of my life.
I paint the wall more than once.
Porter’s cum is warm and slippery on my lower back when he pulls out.
That uncensored orgasm is by far the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
We hold each other for a moment, wet hair dripping down my neck.
Those scratches on my shoulder last for days.
But every time I see them in the mirror, I smile a little.
◆◆◆
And this is how we spend our Mondays.
I live for it.
I count the hours in between.
“We're not done,” he promises one afternoon as we lay on the towel in his room.
“We should eat though. Let me make you something.”
“You know what I want in my mouth,” I sigh. “Quit making me beg.”
He’s more of a giver than a taker.
But I long to give.
“Eat first,” he says with a kiss.
Scrambling to find clothes, we head downstairs.
The kitchen is still empty, thankfully.
Those boys are deeply committed to footy.
The refrigerator glows, casting a dim light across the shadows.
I love to watch Porter cook.
There’s something so sexy about a man in an apron.
Not just the slicing and dicing, or the sizzle in the pan.
It’s the plating up that makes me pine the most.
The attention to detail.
This boy refuses to let any meal be presented without flourish.
“Grilled cheese,” I request. “With those mushrooms you fried the other day?”
He stands behind me, keeping his voice low.
“Fried? Never. For you, I shall sauté.”
His knife moves quickly.
Soft layers peel from a blend of swiss brown and shiitake.
Searing them in brown butter, he adds a splash of chardonnay.
A little garlic and rosemary.
A splash of truffle oil.
“Such a show off,” I tease. “But keep going.”
And he does.
Sourdough, an inch thick with a light brush of butter on the side.
Gruyère melting like silk.
Stretchy mozzarella, barely escaping the edges.
A pinch of parmesan.
“You're a magician with food,” I swoon.
That smile is seductive.
Cooking is how he woos.
“Almost done,” he says.
A scattering of thyme leaves.
A few drops of balsamic.
Sea salt sprinkled on top.
“Iced water with lime?” he guesses.
“Please.”
I devour every bite within minutes.
◆◆◆
When our bellies are full, I rinse and dry the dishes like a good little kitchen boy.
In this rare moment of kitchen seclusion, Porter lets his guard slip.
His hands wander places that are usually reserved for upstairs only.
Never downstairs.
Turning to face him, I break another rule.
Sitting on the counter is an absolute no no under Franko's rule.
Legs curled around his waist, I lure him closer until our mouths meet.
“Your turn to do as I say,” I whisper.
“Fuck, I love it when you get sassy.”
“Pantry, now,” I instruct.
I like how it feels to boss him around.
The door is still unlocked.
We keep it open just a smidge.
“We shouldn't…”
“Yes we should,” I insist. “I know you get off on the risk. Don't try to deny it.”
“I guess I do,” he admits.
“You know damn well you do. Now drop your pants.”
I sink to my knees.
And for once Porter does as he’s told.
◆◆◆
Days later, neither of us can shake it from our minds.
Every time he steps through that pantry door, he bites his lip or turns pink.
You wanted it bad, I grin, as I scrub and stack the trays nearby.
You still can't forget the way I made you feel, can you?
A stolen look between us says it all.
That boy is burning with desire just as much as I am.
We hustle among the chaos.
The usual mayhem surrounds us from dusk til dark.
We barely get a moment alone until midnight.
Boss barking orders.
Chefs hollering along the line.
Pots and pans clattering.
A culinary orchestra of sorts.
But the memory is sweeter than ever.
Kneeling in the pantry, flour on my knees.
Porter gripping a potato so hard that it bruised.
My insatiable mouth, creamy and full for the first time.
The look in his eyes as I swallowed.
I made him want it.
I did that.
I brought pleasure to the pleasure giver.
This is the thought that keeps me smiling all fucking day.
“I'm gonna need that as often as you'll let me…”
That’s what he whispered as we walked up the stairs.
He hasn’t been the same since we locked that pantry door.
And neither have I.
That was four days ago.
Three more til I can do it again.
I yearn for him.
Pushing him to unravel, making him quiver at the knees.
I crave his body more than ever.
I crave this new found power.
Fuck what the other guys think.
Let them see the way I look at you, I don't care.
Enough with the hot and cold, I grumble to myself.
Hot and cold is our deal, though.
At least for now.
And if it means keeping him happy, I’ll play along.
I’ll be good.
I’ll keep our dirty little secret.
◆◆◆
“Bloody legend.” Damien hands him the keys. “I owe ya one.”
“Not exactly a hardship, living next to the beach for two weeks,” Porter laughs.
My ears prick up at the mention of a beach.