"I can see that." But he was smiling as he looked at my house—cream clapboard with green shutters, the small porch, everything modest and neat.
I killed the engine and for a moment we just sat there, both breathing hard, the air between us crackling with tension.
"Jason," Brent said quietly, turning to face me. "I need you to know—I didn't come here just for this. I came because I'm falling in love with you and I needed to see if we could build something real."
My heart stuttered. "I know that. But I also need you to know—I've been climbing the walls without you. So when we get inside—"
"When we get inside," he interrupted, his eyes dark even in the dim light from the street, "I'm going to make up for every second we've been apart."
We got out of the car in silence, our breath fogging in the December cold. I grabbed his suitcase while he took his messenger bag, and my hands were shaking as I unlocked the front door. The temperature had dropped with sunset—probably in the low twenties now, the kind of cold that bit through layers.
I barely had time to flip on the lamp by the couch—soft, warm light filling the small living room—and drop the suitcase before Brent had me pressed against the now-closed door, his mouth hot and demanding on mine.
"Fuck," he breathed against my lips. "I've missed you so much. Missed this."
"Bedroom," I managed between kisses, even as my hands came up to grip his shoulders. "Down the hall—"
"Can't wait that long." His hands were already under my coat, pushing it off my shoulders, then finding the hem of my shirt. Palms hot against my skin, sliding up my ribs. "Need you now. Been dying for this."
We stumbled further into the living room, shedding coats and shoes. My cottage was small—living room with the garage sale couch and mismatched chair, small TV on a bookshelf, everything comfortable and lived-in.
Brent pulled my shirt over my head and immediately bent to taste my collarbone, my chest, working his way down while his hands worked my belt open. His mouth was hot, his stubble rough against my skin, and I couldn't stop the sounds escaping my throat.
"Brent—wait—" I gasped, even as my hips pushed forward into his touch. "The couch—"
"Perfect." He guided me backward until my legs hit the cushions—worn corduroy, soft from years of use—and I sat heavily. He dropped to his knees between my thighs on the hardwood floor, and the sight of him there—coat discarded, hairmussed, eyes dark and focused entirely on me—made my brain short-circuit.
"I've been dreaming about this," he said, working my jeans open with steady hands. "About getting my mouth on you again. Tasting you. Making you fall apart."
He freed me from my boxers, and I groaned at the first touch of his hand—hot and confident. Then his mouth followed and I nearly came apart right there.
"God—Brent—" My hands found his hair, needing something to anchor myself to as he took me deeper. The heat, the pressure, the wet slide of his tongue—it was too much and not enough all at once. The room was warm from the heater clicking on, but my skin felt fever-hot.
He pulled off long enough to look up at me, and the sight of him—lips swollen and slick, eyes heavy-lidded, completely focused on my pleasure—made me groan. "You taste even better than I remembered. Missed this so much."
Then he was back on me, one hand wrapped around what he couldn't fit in his mouth, the other gripping my thigh hard enough to bruise. I could feel every detail—the suction, the way his tongue traced the vein on the underside, the obscene wet sounds filling my small living room. The pressure was building fast, coiling tight at the base of my spine.
"I'm close," I gasped, my grip tightening in his hair. "Brent, I'm—"
He hummed around me, the vibration pushing me right to the edge, and then he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard and I came with a cry, my whole body tensing as pleasure rolled through me. He worked me through it, swallowing, not pulling away until I was gasping and oversensitive.
When he finally sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his smile was wicked.
"Fuck," I breathed, boneless against the cushions. My heart was still racing, skin flushed and damp. "That was—"
"Not nearly enough." He stood and pulled his own shirt over his head. I watched through half-lidded eyes as he worked his jeans open—the flush spreading across his chest, muscles shifting under skin as he moved. "I need you, Jason. Need to be inside you. Need to feel you."
My breath caught. We hadn't gone this far at the retreat. The idea of him filling me, of giving him everything, made me shiver despite the warmth of the room.
"Yeah," I said, sitting up on shaky legs. "Yeah, I want that too. But—bedroom. More space. And supplies."
He pulled me to my feet and kissed me hard, and I could taste myself on his tongue. "Lead the way."
We made it down the short hallway to my bedroom in a tangle of limbs and stolen kisses. I kicked the door shut behind us and we stumbled to my bed together.
We fell onto the bed and Brent braced himself above me. For a moment we just looked at each other. His hair was completely mussed now, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. A flush spread down his neck, disappearing under his open jeans. He was beautiful.
"Hi," I said softly, reaching up to trace his jaw.
