55. Indy
FIFTY-FIVE
INDY
This thing has a time limit, and we’re both aware.
So we use every minute.
Every second.
Frantically.
With determination.
We fuck all over his apartment.
He bends me over the kitchen counter.
I suck him off in the shower.
He pushes me onto the couch, pinning my arms against the backrest, and rides me, hips moving in tantalizingly smooth circles.
We order pizza and eat it in bed to refuel.
He tosses me onto the bed, shoves my knees up to my chest, and pushes inside me, alternating deep, long strokes with short, shallow ones until I’m frustrated enough to curse him out.
He sits on the bed and pulls me to him, my thighs over his.
His fingers splay on my abdomen, and he traps my leaking cock between my stomach and his palm, rubbing the tip with the pad of his thumb until I’m leaking so much precum that I’m dizzy and not sure anymore if it even is precum, or if I’m coming.
And then he stops, and I curse him.
And we flip, and I slam inside him.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “There. Right fucking there, Blue.”
I push him to the edge of the bed and stand behind him.
He grips the sheets, grappling for purchase with every thrust of my hips.
Sex with Nick is not simple. It’s wild and soft in equal measure. Reckless and brutal and gentle. It’s impossibly addictive.
Like being in love with him, everything between us comes in extremes. It’s fierce and fragile and volatile and beautiful. Messy.
It leaves marks.
I watch him come so many times throughout the day and night. In me and on me. Into my ass and my mouth.
He’s as insatiable as I am.
We fuck until everything aches and hurts.
The worst part?
We talk. We stay far away from anything serious or substantial, but there are plenty of non-serious things we can argue and laugh about.
My head on his stomach as he cards his fingers through my hair.
Us sprawled on his bed, his arm thrown over my chest. My leg over his thigh.
Him running his hand over my chest and my softened dick. Sliding his fingertips through my cum-soaked crease. Playing with my overly tender hole, rubbing cum around the rim. Every now and then he dips the tip of his finger inside me.
It’s the filthy kind of intimacy I’ve never experienced with anybody else. The kind of intimacy where my body might as well be his, and he can do anything he wants with it.
It’s easy to forget.
That none of it is real.
I walk back home early on Monday morning.
Nick falls asleep just before dawn, hand possessively on my stomach, feet tangled with mine. When the sun is rising over the horizon, I quietly slide out of his bed.
It hurts the moment I do.
It hurts when I get dressed.
It hurts when I pull his front door shut behind me.
It hurts when I make my way down the stairs.
It hurts when I step outside into the cool, gray morning.
I stole his T-shirt because I’m an idiot.
I wish I hadn’t.
I wish I’d been strong enough not to. It’s not going to do me any good to keep it, but I couldn’t resist.
I take one more look up at his windows.
My chest aches.
I don’t think that’s changing any time soon.