“You don’t want me to do this?” I ask as I palm one of his butt cheeks.
He tilts his hips towards me, which is all the answer I need.
“I always want you to do this,” he clarifies unnecessarily.
“Dude, you have a stoma. There have to be some advantages of that,” I say not forthe first time.
“Okay, fuck, okay,” he sighs as I run a finger down his crease and find his hole. He’s so easy to please. So easy to love.
“Oh, God, Dee…” Benji groans as I get in position between his legs, opening him up for me.
“Jesus, yes, right… there,” he hisses as I put my mouth on him. He tastes like salt and soap and a familiarity I thought I’d never have with someone. And I’m so pleased it’s with him. I’m so pleased we found each other again.
As my tongue gets to work, making the tight pleats of him slick and warm, and he squirms against me, moaning with every touch, I feel all the disgruntlement I was carrying with me earlier, for months really, disappear. Of course, this trip feels loaded with nostalgia and grief and emotion, but I don’t need to let that overwhelm me. I can do what I just did. I can share with Benji. I can talk about what’s bothering me. And I can focus on the good.
The good being my boyfriend’s perfect hole and his even more perfect whimpering as I apply more pressure and spread his cheeks wider apart.
“Fuck, Dion,” he thrusts up into my face. I push him back down.
“Behave,” I warn.
He tries his best, I can tell that much. But in less than a minute, he’s rutting into the sheets underneath him and his moans are constant, desperate and even I start to feel sorry for him.
It’s also fair to say that I’m a swollen, dripping mess for him too, so when I lift off him and tell him to roll over, it’s not just for him.
Stepping back off the bed, I start to take my clothes off, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Benji brings a hand to his dick and starts stroking. I should tell him not to.I should tell him to wait. I could even punish him for being too eager, too desperate. But he looks so beautiful – flushed cheeks, shallow breaths, tight nipples – and I’ve just made the decision to make Paris a trip of only good things, a whole new collection of good memories, and I want this to be one of them.
As soon as my clothes are off, I climb up on the bed and straddle Benji’s legs. His gaze stays on me, piercing hot, and I really do believe his eyes have never looked bluer, but that’s a thought I have at least once a day. With a gentle tap, I knock his hand off his dick, and I grip the base with my own. Benji arches off the bed, and I should praise him for holding back the way he wants to thrust up into my grip, but instead I lean over, and I kiss him.
My full stomach brushes against his stoma belt, his hard pecs press against my soft ones and our mouths slot together so perfectly I’d love to know the physics of it. Or the chemistry. Or whatever it is that makes him so fucking perfect for me in every single way.
As our kiss deepens, he finally loses the self-restraint that stopped him from moving in my grip, and I let him until we’re both thrusting against each other, and I think I may incur serious physical injury if I don’t have him inside me. So I sit back, give him three firm strokes, and then I lift and slide him inside me. The relief and the pleasure I feel as I sit back down is another thing that should be studied. It’s the highest high I’ve ever experienced, enhanced by the way Benji moans and shivers under me.
“Feel good?” I ask somewhat pointlessly.
“Always,” he replies with a side smile, his voice thick and raspy.
And then I start to move.
I ride my boyfriend earnestly and with a rhythm thatrequires more control than I expect. He urges me on with his words – French curses, mumbled moans, half-finished sentences about how good I feel – and his hands roaming my body. He grips my thighs, pulls at the dark hairs there, before grabbing my biceps and squeezing, like he’s holding onto me for dear life, even though he’s completely held by the bed. When he brings his hand up to the back of my neck, I dutifully bend down and kiss him, but then he realises he can’t whimper as loudly as he needs to like that, so he tilts his head to the side and just holds me against him.
That’s when I start to lose it. My control. My need to be completely in charge. My worry is that an older, unrecognisable version of myself who came to Paris aged seventeen is still here, lurking in the shadows. I let go of that idea, but at the same time, I promise myself that if it does happen, I’ll be kind to myself. To that poor boy who was trying to figure so much out. Maybe I’ll even show him just how well things work out.
Suddenly, even that possibility is hard to think about. As I start to slam my body down on Benji’s, making him fill me up, hard and deep, the pressure of his own thrusts rubbing against the head of my dick, I see the vein in his neck start to throb.
“Putain, putain,” he gasps.
“Fuck, yeah,” I moan with him, and then I’m coming. Clamping around him as he pulses inside me, and it’s perfect. So fucking perfect.
I close my eyes and enjoy every single second of my orgasm, and Benji’s. And then, when Benji’s arms envelope me, and he pulls me down onto his chest, I enjoy every single second of what comes after.
When Benji emergesfrom the bathroom with a towel around his waist, I’m now fully convinced all my favourite sights from this trip will take place in this hotel room. He has another towel in his hands, and he’s busy rubbing it against his wet hair as he speaks.
“So, I was thinking,” he begins. “It’s getting late, and the museums will only be open for another hour or two. And we’re just walking distance away, so why don’t we go walk to the Eiffel Tower now? Maybe grab dinner somewhere nearby. And then watch it all lit up as night falls.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That sounds a bit…”
“Romantic?” He finishes for me. “Yeah, it will be. But not,” he points a finger at me, “because I want to propose. I made you a promise.”
