God.
He fucked me up good last night. He made me come so much and so hard that I’m pretty sure the collagen in my bones melted. I’m runny now where I used to be solid. I’m shaky inside today, and I think it’s because I’m here and he’s there.
All I want to do is go home so I can kiss him.
I spend the day drifting, thinking of Connor and replaying our kisses until it starts to feel like I’m an observer, watching a movie about two guys who can’t keep their hands off each other, rather than an active participant. An old movie. A grainy, scratchy film that flickers in time with my heartbeat.
I replay everything. Every word. Every look we shared. Every kiss.
But mostly, mostly I think about the way he kissed me before I fell asleep last night. I think about the kiss that tasted like him and me.
I think about it and think about it until everything spins. My desk. My chair. The whole goddamn housing department. I think about it in a way that’s different from the way I think about our other kisses. They were whispered words and sweet things. Quiet murmurs and stolen glances.
The kiss that tasted like both of us was nothing like that. It was a promise. A portent. Salty and satisfying. A foreshadowing of what’s going to happen when I get home tonight.
41
Lennon
Myhomecomingisthesame as it was last night, but more urgent. More desperate. More magnetic. It plays out the same way, but this time, we don’t make it to the bedroom, so our reunion happens on the living room floor.
This time, when the first thick haze of arousal lifts, Connor says, “Kitchen. Dinner. We need to eat something tonight.”
“Eat something?” I parrot mindlessly. It seems a strange concept. One I can’t see the point of. There’s only one thing I crave, and that’s Connor.
He sits on the counter like he always does. The problem is, I can’t remember how to cook. I get a chopping board out and look at it for a while, then I look up at Connor and forget that I forgot how to cook.
“…such a nice day. I skipped class this morning and took a long nap.” He says a lot more about his nap, and I’m incredibly interested in what he’s saying because the concept of Connor curled up and sleepy is utterly mesmerizing, but I lose focusbecause of how he looks sitting on the counter. His legs are crossed at the ankles and he’s swinging them both at the same time. He’s wearing jeans and I can see a clear bulge in his pants when his legs move. It distracts me so much that I rinse the chopping board and put it away without chopping anything. He notices and laughs. “Did you mean to do that?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m a little tired.”
“Aw, did I wear you out last night?” There’s a sparkle of excitement that lights up the blue striations in his eyes more than the green. A subtle vacillation that makes his breath shallow.
Warmth trickles down my body and pools in my groin. Skin tightens. Flesh thickens and goes stiff.
The mesmeric force between us amps up.
I run my fingertips up his thighs. His jeans are pulled tight over his legs because of the way he’s sitting, and the coarse fabric scrapes against my skin. The friction it causes lights a flame that laps up my arms.
“You know you did,” I tell him. My ability to lie or hide things from him has been badly impacted. What’s left in its place is a brutal, peaceful kind of honesty. An honesty without fear of judgment. An honesty that doesn’t feel like a choice. It’s something that exists like air. Like breathing. “You took me apart like you said you would.” My fingers reach his fly and worry the stitching near his zipper. His hands clench on the counter and he sucks in a quick, small breath. “But guess what, Connor Lockwood… Tonight, I’m going to be the one taking you apart.”
He nods earnestly, eyes fixed on me in a way that assures me I have his undivided attention.
“You know what I think,” he says. “I think maybe we should order in.”
“Good call ’cause I can’t remember how to cook a damn thing.”
Laughter peals out of him as he pushes himself off the counter and onto his feet. He brushes past me, a whisper of his shoulder against my chest. A whisper that says things likeyou want this?Andcome and get it.
I follow him like an animal with a leash around its neck. A leash that’s pulled tight.
A leash I like.
A leash that makes me drop to my knees, crawling behind him in big, ungainly paces, when we get to the living room.
As soon as I reach him, my hands are on the back of his jeans. On his waistband, pulling. Dragging them down with no care or understanding of how zippers and buttons work. Fortunately, Connor is in a clearer place of mind than I am because he unbuttons and unzips, then stands still as I yank his jeans and underwear down in several frantic motions.
His legs are naked, denim bunched around his ankles. The hair on his legs is dark blond. Thick. A coarse mat that fades as I run my hands up his thighs. He’s still wearing his T-shirt. It’s long, a little too big for him, like always, and it covers most of his ass, but not all of it.
