19
Somehow, the conversation moved upstairs to my bedroom.
And when Noah said, “I think I’m going to sleep over,” I said, “Okay.”
It reminded me of how things had been when we’d first started dating.
When I’d been freaking out about people seeing Noah coming in and out of the building.
When I’d tried to figure out times and routes and plans so I could sneak him in.
Not that I thought of it that way, at the time.
It was just something I did. The way I handled a lot of my shit.
The first time that Noah had slept over, all those years ago, it had been so casual, so matter-of-fact, that I hadn’t even realized it was happening.
It’s late, Noah had said. We’d been on the couch, him curled up inside my arms. I don’t want to move.
And then, like we’d talked about it already, You don’t mind if I stay over, do you?
And then, like now, Noah had been my kryptonite.
He didn’t have pajamas, so he borrowed one of my sweatshirts.
It reached the top of his thighs—not quite long enough to cover his underwear—and left his smooth legs on display.
Twice during the night, all that contact, all that bare skin, and maybe most of all, the intimacy of sharing a bed with another body, with someone I wanted, with someone I could touch—it meant two separate rounds of sleep-blurred sex.
And when I’d gotten up the next morning, Noah had still been there, which meant it hadn’t been a dream.
Now, in my bedroom, he slipped out of his clothes.
I guess I could have pointed out that if he wanted to sleep in a hoodie, he could sleep in that oversized one he was wearing.
But instead, I watched as he found one of my old Mizzou ones and wriggled into it.
The underwear tonight was black, and it was a jock—the straps around his thighs, a tiny pouch for his dick, and that was all.
“You’re going to give me a fucking heart attack,” I said.
Noah gathered the sweatshirt’s hem, which barely reached the top of his thighs, and pulled it tight against his legs. He gave a little smile, said, “I’m going to borrow your toothbrush,” and bounced toward the bathroom.
Which left me and my semi.
Water. Splashing. Noah trying to sing “Old Town Road,” never mind that he could never carry a tune. When he came back, his face was pink, and the makeup was gone. He looked softer without it, if that made any sense.
Noah climbed onto the bed and said, “I want to suck your dick.”
“Uh.”
“Take your clothes off.”
So, I might have been an idiot in a lot of ways. But I got my shirt off pretty damn fast, and Noah was busy pulling down my joggers and my boxers.
“Independence Day?” Noah said when he saw them. “Howie.”
“I’m going to make you see fireworks, baby.”
He groaned and rolled his eyes, but he finished peeling the clothes off me.
By that point, I was past a semi and hard as a rock, my dick resting against my belly.
Noah chafed my thighs with his hands, and I shivered.
His touch moved upward. He played with my balls with one hand. His other hand rubbed my stomach.
“Take your clothes off,” I told him.
Noah shook his head.
“I want to see you,” I said.
“I don’t want to get off tonight,” he said. “I want to get you off. And I want to be horny out of my mind when you fuck my brains out on my birthday.” His hand moved up to circle my dick, and I let out a happy breath. “How does that sound?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
He smirked, bent, and ran my dick along his cheek.
His skin was so soft. So smooth. He repeated the gesture on the other side, and when he lifted his face, twin tracks of pre marked his cheeks.
He only gave me a moment to enjoy the view before ducking his head again.
This time, he ran the head of my dick back and forth over his lips.
They were even softer, somehow. He parted them slightly, and the tip of his tongue grazed the sensitive skin under the head of my dick.
“You are a fucking tease,” I grumbled as I ran my hand through his hair.
Noah continued being a fucking tease for at least another five minutes.
And while yeah, I’d been letting off steam pretty regularly over the last couple of weeks, and yeah, it wasn’t like a BJ was anything new for me and Noah, there was something about being here, with him, tonight, after what we’d talked about in the kitchen that made everything more…
intense. I wanted to be in him. I wanted to nut.
And, at the same time, I didn’t want it to end.
I wanted this. More of this. Because it felt so good.
And because it was fun. And because he was Noah.
When he took my dick into his mouth, my breath sounded more like a moan.
Noah was careful with his teeth. But he smiled at me with his eyes as he worked my cock deeper into his mouth.
His hand stroked the rest of my shaft, what he couldn’t take at this angle, gathering the spit that leaked down my rod so that each twist of his hand grew smoother.
I ran my fingers through Noah’s hair. I tickled the back of his neck.
I rubbed his shoulders through the faded Mizzou sweatshirt.
I found his nipples through the cotton and squeezed, and Noah made a soft, desperate noise and sucked even harder around my dick.
He pulled off, saliva hanging from his chin, and said, “Up.”
While I sat up, Noah knelt on the floor. I moved to the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor, bracketing him.
Noah swatted my thigh. “Get up.”
“Hmm,” I said, and I grabbed his hair and pulled him forward. “Not yet.”
I couldn’t really thrust, not sitting the way I was, so I pulled Noah back and forth, sliding him onto my dick and back off again.
He made little sounds. He tried to brace himself on my thighs, but I wouldn’t let him.
Desperation made his eyes bright, and when I pressed one bare foot against the pouch of his jock, he was hard.
Noah moaned at the contact and tried to say no, but his mouth was full of dick.
“You sure?” I asked. “You sure about that, angel?”
But he made the sound again, so I let go, and he scooted backward. He was panting. His lips were puffy. His chin and cheeks glazed with spit. The front of the Mizzou sweatshirt dark with slobber. I got to my feet, and he followed me with his eyes.
This time, I took his head in both hands. And then I fucked his face.
Not too hard, at first. Not too rough, even though that was what he wanted. Steady. And then, when he had some time to adjust, forcing deeper, into his throat.
He took me like a champ; he always had.
So much tighter. So much…more, in every way.
The feel of him around me. The helplessness in his face.
The tears. The snot. The way he tried to breathe through his nose until finally—finally—I pulled off enough for him to gasp in air, and then I was fucking in again, taking his mouth.
He was grabbing my thighs hard enough to drive his nails into the flesh, and I knew I’d feel it later, but for the time being, it was just Noah, and the way he looked at me, and the feeling of being inside him.
When I got close, I moved faster. And then faster.
And then I tipped myself over the edge and started to unload.
It was half-decision and half-physics that I slid out of his throat as I was shooting; Noah liked me to finish in his mouth, but part of it just had to do with the fact that I couldn’t stay buried in his throat anymore.
Then it was over. My legs were trembling—in a good way—and I was starting to soften.
Noah blinked his eyes clear; they were electric blue, pupils swollen, lashes heavy with his tears.
He tongued my dick, playing with it like he didn’t want to give it up yet.
Then I pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed again.
Noah scooted forward and pressed his face into the cleft of my thigh.
I trailed my fingers along the bumps of his spine, up into his hair, where I scratched lightly before reversing course.
Finally, Noah groaned.
I laughed. But I asked, “You okay?”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
Pulling back, Noah looked up at me. Eyebrows drawn together. Nose scrunched up. “You made me come!”
I laughed again. “You liked that, huh?”
“I wasn’t supposed to come!”
“Poor baby.”
He got to his feet. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.”
As he turned to the bathroom, I grabbed his wrist. Reeled him in. Kissed him.
The taste of my load was still in his mouth. I remembered how surprised I’d been, the first time I’d tasted myself on someone else.
The eyebrows went down. The nose wasn’t quite so scrunched.
“You can borrow my Presidents’ Day trunks,” I told him. “They’ve got Abraham Lincoln.”
That made him grin, but it was gone again in that mock-severity. “Good God, Howard Cartwright,” he said, smoothing a hand over my buzzed hair. “What am I supposed to do with you?”