And shy, and cute, and kind, and warm, and beautiful, and wonderful, and a stupid fucking needy prick with a horrible big heart.
Sure, I was miserable, hopping from one guy to another, never developing any form of meaningful friendships. But I was happy being miserable. I knew where I stood. Knew not to trust anybody, or count on anybody, or let anybody in.
I let one person in—one clingy and insecure and vulnerable and loveable and funny as fuck person—and look where it got me.
My shirt is shoved to the floor. It joins his in a jumbled heap. Harry whines into my mouth, his forehead butted up against mine, as he unbuckles his belt, and drops his shorts to the ground.
“Get these stupid fucking trousers off.” Harry yanks my buckle, lifting me off the bed.
“Yes sir,” I say, because it’s what I would say to any other guy in this situation. I pull my trousers down, leaving only my black boxer briefs, which I begin to take off, but Harry stops me with a firm hand on the waistband.
“No, mine.”
Where was this guy a year ago?
Through my underpants, he palms my balls and works his fingers up to my cock, and he pauses. I’m hard. “Is that a reflex action from the stimulation or is it genuine attraction, arousal?”
“Both?” I’m not too sure.
“Lando, I’m going. I’m leaving tomorrow, or in a minute, whenever, I don’t care. But before I go, before we’re officially over, I . . . need you.”
I’m trying not to smile. I need to remain calm and serious, but those are the magic words. He could break me a thousand times over with those words. “Say that again.”
“I need you. I need all of you right now. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, fuck me, please. I need you too.”
I’ve needed you for so fucking long.
“Do you have condoms? And lube?”
I point to the drawer next to the little dressing table, and Harry walks over in only his pants.
“Can I just look at all of you one last time, please?” I say.
His bottom lip wobbles again, and his brow creases, but he drops his underpants, revealing the full glory of his naked self. His stiff, freckly cock, his thick as fuck rugby thighs, that beautiful ass. He grabs my phone from the dresser, unlocks it, and snaps two mirror selfies. One from the front, and one from behind, and then tosses it back onto the table. It thunks loudly against a glass bon bon dish.
“I’m not deleting the photos I have of you, so we’re even now.”
Ah, the pictures of me in my lace knickers, and at the beer garden covered in his cum.
“Do you still look at them?” The last time I checked, he’d saved them to a favourites folder.
“Every morning. Most evenings when I’m alone.”
“Really?”
“Almost every orgasm I have is fuelled by thoughts of you.” He stares me dead in the eye, zero embarrassment. “By the memory of things we’ve done. Me, imagining things I would have done to you if I were brave enough.”
“If I were brave enough.”Not,“If you weren’t the way you are.”I feel like crying again, and I have no idea why. I swallow down the painful lump.
“I want to make you come too,” he says, and I’m too stunned to reply. “You can say no. You can say stop any time you like. But . . . just once . . . I want to watch you feel the things I feel for you.”
“What if it doesn’t happen?”
Harry shrugs. “Then I’ll try harder.”
I nod. “Then . . . I won’t fake it.”
