Chapter 42 #2
He kissed me at the doorframe of our bedroom in our apartment, and there was a moment where all our time together sat in the kiss, every careful Ellis tic and every stupid thing I’d ever done, every Sunday with the phone on the counter and every Wednesday with the basil.
He laughed against my mouth, and the laugh turned into something else.
“We made it.” He said it like he hadn’t meant to.
“We made it.”
He pulled me down onto the mattress on the floor. We landed sideways, half-clothed already from the moving day, my t-shirt riding up, his sweatpants slung low. He laughed again, this time the gym-loud version, and I caught it on my mouth.
We undressed each other on the floor mattress, no rush, the kind of slow that came from knowing every inch.
The streetlight from outside laid yellow stripes across his chest. The barbells warm under my palm.
The geometric sleeve a dark line against his pale skin.
His cock came free hard already, the curve, the head a deep pink, the slit slick.
Mine came free a beat after, the brown of my shaft a clear contrast against the pale of him when he pressed close.
“Whose mouth first?” He asked it like a coin toss.
“Yours.”
“Bossy.”
“Always.”
He moved down. Stopped at the Libre tattoo.
Kissed it the way he always did. Kept moving.
Hip. Inside of thigh. The metal got the slow attention he’d learned over time, tongue first, then teeth, then the rhythm I’d taught him.
He took me into his mouth slow, the wet warmth of him familiar now, the way his tongue dragged on the underside of my cock, the way his lips slid down the brown of my shaft, the way he held the base of me with his hand while his mouth worked the head and the metal.
The streetlight caught his cheek every time he breathed.
I watched the line of him, the way his hair fell forward, the way his free hand spread on my hip the way it always did now.
But he didn’t take me there. He pulled off before I could go over the edge, lifted his head, and kissed the inside of my thigh. A thread of spit connected his lower lip to the head of my cock for a beat before it broke. He licked his lips, slow, the taste of me on his tongue.
“Not yet.” He grinned. The crooked one. “We have time.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m your boyfriend. Maybe one day your husband.”
“Eventually.”
I tipped him over onto his back and went down on him in return.
I knew his tells now; knew the second his thigh tensed, knew the small inhale that came two strokes before the edge.
The curve of him fit my mouth like it belonged there, the head of him pressed to the roof of my mouth on every push down.
I’d memorized the slick taste of his pre-cum.
Tonight he was leaking steady. I pulled off when his thigh tensed.
A wet sound. A thread of saliva and his slick that broke between my lips and the head of him.
He laughed up at the ceiling, wrecked. “Two can play.”
“We’ve been playing for months, Ellis.”
“And we’re still bad at finishing efficiently.”
“Efficiency’s overrated.”
He pulled me back up the line of him and rolled us. The mattress moved. He pinned my wrists above my head, gentle.
“I want you to have me first,” he said. “Then I want it the other way.”
“Both of us.”
“Both of us. New apartment. Christen the place properly.”
I laughed. The laugh broke when he reached past me and pulled the lube out of one of the still-taped boxes labeled BEDROOM ESSENTIALS in his handwriting.
“You labeled this box?”
“I labeled all the boxes, and I planned for tonight.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
He kissed me through it. He let me work him open the way I’d learned worked best. I slicked my fingers warm and pressed one in slow.
He took it the way he always did now, body familiar with the stretch, the soft breath catching at the press.
Two when he was ready. Three when he asked.
He let me have him under the streetlight, slow, his hands flat against the wall above the bed because there was no headboard yet, his mouth open against my throat, his voice cracking on small words I’d learned to listen for.
I slicked my cock. Lined up. Pushed in slow. The head of me passed the tight ring of him, the metal pulling that familiar small breath out of him, the same one it pulled the first time. I bottomed out. My hips against his ass. My cock buried to the base. The wet sound of slick and stretch.
“Like home,” he said at one point. Half-laugh, half-something I couldn’t name. “
“Like home.”
I moved in him slow. Long deep strokes. The slick on my cock made me slide easy. His own cock was hard against his stomach. I reached around and got my hand on him, slick from the lube on my fingers, and worked him in time with my hips.
“Tell me when,” I murmured at his ear.
“Not yet. I want to.”
“Switch?”
“Yeah. Don’t come yet. I want you to.”
“Yeah.”
I pulled out of him slow. The slip of me pulling free pulled a small sound out of both of us. He turned in my arms, kissed me hard, tasted himself and me on each other’s mouths.
We rolled when he asked for it. He moved over me. The streetlight caught the geometric line of his sleeve. He took his time.
I watched him slick his cock above me, the curve up wet and shining in the streetlight, the head a deep flushed pink.
He pressed my knees back and lined up. The blunt head of him pressed against me.
The slick of him meeting the slick of me.
The stretch when he pushed in slow was the familiar one now, his cock filling me the way it had been filling me for months, his curve up hitting that spot inside me on every retreat.
He bottomed out. His hips against me. His cock buried deep. His palm spread over my heart the way it always did.
The slow drag of every push. The hot wet of every retreat.
The way the curve of his cock found that spot inside me on every thrust. The way his free hand wrapped around me, slick from lube and my own pre-cum, and worked me in time with his hips.
My cock leaking onto my own stomach, my breath broken open in his apartment that was our apartment.
He came with my hand on him, and I followed him over a beat after.
His cock pulsed thick inside me. The come of him filled me in long warm pulses that rolled all the way through my body.
Mine pulsed thick in his fist, the come spilling hot across my stomach and onto his fingers, the metal at my tip catching the streetlight in a bright wet flash.
We stayed tangled on the floor mattress for a long time after, breathing each other in.
The streetlight moved across the ceiling as a car passed.
The come of both of us pooled where my hip met the sheet.
The wet of him slowly leaking out of me down my thigh.
The apartment was a ridiculous mess of boxes, someone’s sage, and our love.
Eventually, he laughed.
“What?”
“There’s no towel for cleanup. I packed them in the bathroom box.”
“The bathroom box?”
“I didn’t put a towel in the bedroom essentials box.”
“Ellis.”
He stumbled out to the kitchen wrapped in the duvet.
I lay there on the floor mattress in the streetlight in the apartment we’d chosen and watched the doorway he disappeared through.
The Jack Jr. cutting Ellis had given me earlier sat on the windowsill of the kitchen, a small terracotta pot the size of my fist, the cutting still pathetic, still doing its thing.
I stared at it through the doorway and thought: chosen.
Twice now.
He came back with a towel, a glass of water, and a grin and crawled back onto the mattress next to me. Pressed his forehead to mine. Didn’t say anything at all.
He didn’t need to.