This is probably a good time for some kind of discussion about what they’re doing here. He doesn’t know how Charlie evenapproaches dating or sex or whatever. Maybe Charlie’s here out of inertia. Maybe he flies everybody’s dogs across the continent. Maybe he’s here to be polite, like kissing the waiter at Lian’s party.
Simon’s relationships, if you can even call them that, have mostly been casual, but not in a fun, carefree way. They’ve been brief. Short enough that nobody has time to get tired of him, or to notice that he’s conducting the whole relationship at arm’s length. Short enough that Simon barely has time to decide whether he’s disappointed not to be feeling whatever he’s supposed to be feeling.
Well, he’s feeling a whole bunch of things right now, mostly terror, but also something warm and fond and new. He wants to keep it hidden away where Charlie won’t see it, maybe somewhere he doesn’t have to see it himself.
“Hey.” Charlie holds Simon’s chin so he can’t look away.
Simon’s sure the next words out of Charlie’s mouth are going to be “we don’t have to” and Simon doesn’t think he can handle that right now, so puts his phone aside and makes himself look up. He’s seen Charlie shirtless so many times—who hasn’t—but never let himself really look. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the window, making Charlie golden. He runs his hands over Charlie’s chest.
“You are,” Simon starts, but he has no plan for how to end that sentence, no exit strategy whatsoever. The fact that he nearly saidbeautifuland would have meant it is just something he’s going to have to live with. He swallows. “Those sweaty gym selfies you sent me? I saved them to a special folder on my phone.”
Simon tugs impatiently at Charlie’s towel, letting it fall to the floor. Then he bends his head to kiss Charlie’s hip, slow and with intent, because he may have plenty of problems but not knowing what to do with Charlie Blake when he’s naked and standing infront of him isn’t one of them. Charlie makes a sound as soon as Simon’s mouth touches him. Both his hands land in Simon’s hair, and then there’s nothing to worry about.
He’s lazy about it, mouthing at Charlie’s skin in an aimless sort of way. “I can’t work with this angle,” he says after a minute. He reaches for one of the bed pillows to throw on the floor. Charlie swears, appreciative, like Simon kneeling on the floor in the fussiest possible way is more than he can handle.
Simon’s been thinking about this, about how it would feel to have Charlie’s hand in his hair, hear the sounds he makes. He wants to make it good, wants to pull out all the stops. But as soon as he has Charlie in his mouth, Charlie’s hand slides to the back of Simon’s neck, and Simon just... stops. His operating system undergoes a complete reboot. He lets himself get lost in it—mechanics, sensation, no decisions to be made.
Charlie’s hand tightens in Simon’s hair, followed immediately by a muttered “sorry” and a tragic slackening of his hand.
Simon rolls his eyes, very deliberately makes what he hopes is a pleased sound, and lets Charlie draw some conclusions.
“Oh, really?” Charlie asks, and Simon should have guessed that he’d be capable of being a smug pain in the ass even now. “Well, well, well, you’re just full of surprises.”
Simon pulls off and glares up. “You know I could just bite this thing off.”
“Hot.”
Simon cannot believe he has to give a blowjob under these conditions. But when Simon puts his hands on Charlie’s hips and pulls, Charlie gets the message, does as he’s told, and Simon just—lets it happen.
Charlie swears a little, which is gratifying, but then he starts running his mouth and Simon nearly loses his concentration. It’s the usual Charlie Blake sex monologue—gorgeous, so good, etc.—but Simon isn’t ready for “Aren’t you pretty like this, honey.”
Simon thinks his heart might skip a beat. He glances up at Charlie, meaning to glare but knowing that isn’t what he’s doing. Charlie looks stricken, like a man who’s run a stop sign and sees flashing lights in the rearview mirror.
Simon doesn’t like that look on Charlie’s face, not ever but especially not now, so he just—makes a sound and unzips his pants.
“You like this,” Charlie says, a little wonderingly, as if the fact that Simon is literally jerking himself off right now isn’t proof of that. As if the fact that Simon’s even doing this in the first place isn’t proof.
Simon pulls off long enough to say, “I hate you,” but his point is probably undercut when he goes right back to what he was doing, definitely undercut when he comes a full minute before Charlie does.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’m starving,” Charlie says. Simon isn’t quite sure how he got into bed, under the duvet, but he’s still floating, his entire brain hidden away somewhere he doesn’t have to deal with it.
“Mmm,” Simon says.
“God, you’re useless after sex,” Charlie says, not sounding at all bothered. “I mean, even more useless than usual.”
“There’s a restaurant,” Simon says. He’s thinking of this place on Tenth Avenue that has dog-friendly sidewalk seating and a menu Simon can work with. Instead of explaining this, he keeps his eyes shut and drifts some more.
Charlie prods him in the ribs. “Do you want to come with me or am I going by myself?”
“Rude to go without me,” Simon mumbles into the pillow.
“Okay, pal, time to get up. I’m walking out the door in fifteen minutes.”
Simon pries his eyes open. “The fact that you think a person can get ready for anything in fifteen minutes explains so much.”
“Fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds.” Charlie taps his wrist. “Clock’s ticking.”
