“And on that note.” I lean all the way over and kiss his beard. It feels so domestic, so natural, so fucking delusional that I’m pretty sure I’m blushing as I pull back. But Marcello doesn’t seem to notice, or mind. In fact, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me against him so he can kiss me properly, his warm mouth on mine. When I feel the rigid edge of his dick through both our trousers I feel redundant saying what I say next when I pull back, but still I say it.
“Think a bit more about if this is what you really want. Or maybe, how you want it to happen.”
Marcello’s eyes darken, his pupils dilating.
“Okay,” he says, his voice a low rumble and I almost expect him to say more. To crack a crouton joke or to reaffirm that this is what he wants to do, but he doesn’t. He just watches me as I pull away and make my way to the bathroom and I could be imagining it but I feel his gaze on me, or very specifically, my arse the whole way.
*****
It doesn’t take me long to douche. I showered very thoroughly before Marcello arrived and after my cleaning frenzy was over. I pride myself on good hygiene and one advantage of eating regular meals that are consistent in their macros is that it means my other rhythm is very consistent, and regular too.
So after little more than ten minutes, I’m dressed again and ready.
At least, I am physically.
Mentally, I’m very muchundouched. I’m clogged up. Backed up with unwanted thoughts. Not that the thoughts are unpleasant. Some of them are concerningly pleasant.
Like how excited I am to bottom for Marcello. Like how much I want this, to feel him inside me, to be fucked by him. Like how I hope this will help bring us closer together. Like maybe this is what will make him realise he’s falling as hard for me as I am for him?
There go my delusions again. At least they’re marginally better than floods of intrusive thoughts.
Or are they? At least with intrusive thoughts I’m dealing with the possible negative, while these new delusions of mine are bringing a new awareness of the possibly good, the possibly happy, a possible love? Fuck, why does that seem so much more terrifying?
Knowing that Marcello is waiting and knowing that the longer I take, the more chance there is that my thoughts will spiral, I reach for my toothbrush and squeeze a small blob of toothpaste onto the bristles. I bring the brush to my mouth and begin.
One, two, three, I brush the teeth on the bottom left side of my mouth.
One, two, three, I switch to the other side.
One, two, three, I turn the brush over and move it around the top left side.
One, two, three, I repeat on the right.
One, two, three, I clench my jaw together and brush my front upper teeth.
One, two, three, I brush my lower upper teeth.
And I repeat. I repeat this nine times and then spit.
I run my tongue along my top and bottom teeth, three times each, and then I use a cup of water to rinse. Three times.
It’s laborious. Even the more rational part of my brain knows how stupid it is. How pointless it is. But it’s one thing to know that, it’s another tofeelit. And I don’t feel it’s pointless. Especially when it actually makes a difference.
By the time I’m flossing, I’m calmer. My chest isn’t tight with anticipation – not anticipation for the physical act of bottoming but the emotional one of being connected to Marcello in that way – and I can breathe easier.
I feel able to go out there, find Marcello and actually do what I promised. Give him a lesson in queer sex.
So that’s what I do. I roll my shoulders back, and open the bathroom door. I switch the light on, then off and then on again, and I walk down the short corridor to my bedroom.
And there I find Marcello completely naked, lying in the middle of my bed, stroking his slick-with-lube hard cock.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marcello
“Look at you,” Giles says from the bedroom door.
I bend my arm behind my head. “Like what you see?” I tease.
