He chuckles and nods, and kisses me back with more heat.
“Let me show you the last thing,” he says, stepping back with a little reluctance before taking my hand. We work our way through more rooms and furniture, and I find myself in a small, pokey place that’s stacked high with tables and chairs. Connor steers me to a table that’s been pushed into the corner. It’s made of a caramel-colored wood with intricate mother-of-pearl inlaid into it in repeated geometric shapes. It’s stunning, and it’s different.
He turns to me, expression somber. “Now, before we do this, you have to swear not to tell my dad.” My curiosity piques, and so does my amusement. I can’t imagine there are many things Connor hides from his dad, and I’m interested to find out what his big secret is. “I was nine when I did it, and I regret it because it was the wrong thing to do, but also, also, this table… It’smine.I love it. I was here the day it came in. It was a Saturday, and the guys carried it in and set it down on the shop floor, and oof.” He clutches his chest. “It was love at first sight. It’s been here ever since, and at least once a year, I make my dad an offer to buy it, but so far, he hasn’t accepted.”
“It’s a nice table,” I say, doing my best impression of a person who knows about things like this. He tugs at my hand and all but manhandles me onto the floor. “What are we doing?”
It’s a stupid question because the answer is clear as day—we’re on our hands and knees, crawling under an antique table. We shuffle positions until we’re sitting, knees at our ears, heads tilted at awkward angles.
Connor turns on the flashlight on his phone and shines it on the underside of the tabletop. Like the top of the table, the underside is varnished to within an inch of its life, so the light bounces off the smooth surface and makes it hard to read whatever it is that Connor is trying to show me.
I squint and move my head. Childish block letters appear in the glossy finish.
PROPERTY OF CONNOR LOCKWOOD
The words were carved by an unsteady hand wielding something sharp. The handwriting is untidy and some letters are a lot bigger and carved deeper than others.
I’m not sure if it’s because Connor’s big, dark secret is neither big nor dark, or if it’s because I’m sitting under a table, feeling exactly like I used to when Caroline and I were kids and built cubby houses in the den, but either way, I start laughing uncontrollably.
Connor jabs me in the ribs and hisses, “Shhh!”
I jab him back, and like that, we’re both five.
We tumble out from under the table in a ball with arms and legs sticking out of it, hissing and spluttering hysterically as we roll around on the floor. At one point, Connor escapes my grip,scrambles to his feet, and runs away from me. I give chase at high speed.
It devolves into a high-stakes game of tag. Connor knows his way around the back rooms so well. It’s like he has the blueprint of the building and each item of stock stamped into his mind. I’m running blind, terrified of knocking something valuable over, but unwilling, or unable, to let Connor out of my sight.
Cabinets and chests whiz past us. Our feet beat the carpet beneath us so hard that puffs of dust fly into the air. The entire time, I’m weakened by laughter. Helpless. Almost falling over. And so is Connor. He’s shaking, shoulders raised up. A defenseless, high-pitched sound spilling out of him.
There’s no way to put it except that we’re playing. Like kids. Like boys.
Like men who’ve forgotten bad things exist.
43
Lennon
It’sstilltheweekend.Saturday, I think. We’ve been back from the store for hours, and in that time, we haven’t left the bedroom. I’m wrapped up in Connor, and he’s wrapped up in me. I’ve already come a couple of times. So has he. We’ve used our hands and mouths, and even though last time I came so hard I saw black spots on the ceiling for at least half an hour, the need hasn’t gone away.
It’s thick and heavy. A blanket that weighs me down and makes me hot. I’m sated, but something’s scratching at the base of my skull. Nails dragged repeatedly over sensitive tissue, inflaming a primitive part of my brain. A message carved out in a language that takes me a while to decipher.
It’swant, I finally realize, and specifically, it’swant more. It’s that Connor’s here with me, naked and sexy as hell, and though I’ve already swallowed him, I want more.
I’ve had his hands and his mouth and his moans, and I want more. I want an unnamed thing. Something I haven’t had before.A concept I like the idea of, without having put it into words or thoughts in the past.
He’s everywhere. On top of me, underneath me. I’m in his arms, then he’s in mine as we roll around kissing and trying to find a way to get closer to each other.
He’s under me again, and as I hold myself up over him, my hand finds its way between his legs. For a while, I play with his cock and balls, and it’s so satisfying I almost forget I want more.
I cup his balls, testing their weight, and slide two fingers behind them. His skin is smooth there. Warm. Sensitive if the way he sucks his breath in is anything to go by. I trace the seam of him all the way down, until I reach a dip.
A decadent dip.
A hot, intoxicating dip that captivates me.
He’s on his back, eyes tracking me lazily, waiting to see what I’ll do next. He watches me with a half-smile, a curious sort of interest. I stroke his opening again, and his head tilts back, but his eyes stay on me. He’s calm, body laid out in surrender one second, and the next, the world turns. Up becomes down, and down becomes up, and I find myself on my back with him on top of me. A rough, guttural sound reverberates out of him as he takes my wrists in his hands and pins me down. He uses significantly more strength than I was expecting.
The change in him is sudden and complete. Breathtaking and shocking.
