Without thinking, my hands fumbled with the button of his pants. Once I got the button undone, I pushed his jeans down over his ass. His cock was rock hard in his tight briefs, straining against the confines of the fabric. My mouth watered for a taste, and I had to remind myself why I couldn’t just drop down to my knees and get that taste. Instead, I pushed his underwear down, freeing him, and wrapped my hand around his shaft.
The weight was familiar, a distant memory brought back to life. The first contact of flesh against flesh had him moaning against my lips, and it made me crave more. I gave a few tentative strokes, trying to remember the way he’d liked it when we were together in the past. I knew I was overthinking it, so much so that I didn’t even notice his hands moving until I felt the hot club air against my cock.
He spat into his hand and wrapped it around my length, and I tried to match pace with him. Our kissing turned into hot breaths and pants against one another’s lips, turned into moans. A combination of precum and spit smoothed the glide, and it still wasn’t enough. Not until he batted my hand away and took us both in hand. We fucked into the tight tunnel of his fist. The slide of his cock against mine, the tightness of his fist…
I was so close to the edge. “So good,” I panted out, not sure if the words were even coherent.
I didn’t care if they were coherent.
“So close,” he groaned against my lips. I could feel the words more than I could hear them.
“Me too,” I whispered.
He twisted his hand around our cocks, and it sent me over the edge. I came with a groan as I shot ropes of cum over his hand, over both of our dicks. He kept going, kept fucking into his hand, my cum acting as a lubricant. His hips stuttered, and he bit down on my bottom lip as he shot his load over me. I felt the heat of his release against my shaft, splashing onto my pelvis, and I swear if I hadn’t already cum, it would’ve been what pushed me over the edge.
I grabbed his wrist as he let go of our cocks, guiding his hand to my lips. He watched with lust drunk eyes as I licked the jizz from the palm of his hands, sucking his fingers into my mouth and cleaning them with my tongue. He groaned and panted, like I was on my knees and doing all of this to his cock. “Holy fuck, Matt,” he moaned.
I wanted to hear him moan my name with his dick in my mouth.
Wanting more, even after getting off, was a foreign concept to me. Usually, the only thing I felt after a hookup was regret. When his hands were clean, he pulled me into another kiss. I think we would’ve kept kissing if we hadn’t heard the creak of the bathroom door, someone coming in. The spell was broken.
I pulled away from him and tucked myself back into my pants, half-hard again already. We went back to my friends, and I kept replaying our time in that bathroom stall. We made our excuses quickly after returning, and Noah drove me back to my place. The closer we got, the more I wanted him to come upstairs with me.
So, you could imagine my disappointment when he dropped me off with a kiss and a promise to call me in the morning.
8
Ifellasleepwitha smile on my face, and my dreams were filled with the sounds Matt made in that bathroom stall. They were filled with the memories of his hands on me, both from that club bathroom and in our shared history. My mind created other scenarios for our bathroom hookup, took it from the bathroom to other venues. I imagined us making out in dark club booths. I dreamed of sucking him off in the backseat of my car. I even dreamed through the scenario where I suggested we go upstairs again, and this time he took me up on it. That was probably my favorite imagined scenario.
In my dreams, we took each other apart. Over and over again, and every time, the memory of him cumming played out. God, the way he’d sounded as he shot his load over my hand and our shafts? It had been borderline pornographic.
It was no surprise that I woke up rock hard. I closed my eyes and replayed my favorite dreams as I got myself off, Matt’s name on my lips.
The combination of the late night, the dreams of Matt, and taking a few extra minutes to get out of bed left me in a rush toget ready for work. I barely had time for a shower and my full skin care routine, but I would rather be late than miss a day of proper skin care. There was no way I was going to be a wrinkled old prune by the time I turned fifty. I had silver fox aspirations, and I was putting in the work now.
I skipped my morning pastry and made do with the awful coffee in the museum break room as a compromise, and I was still on time for work. Sacrifices had to be made, I supposed.
The morning was slow. Just going over paperwork and acquisitions. I sent Matt a few text messages, and I found myself deeply concerned when his responses were slow and terse. He must have been busy. He did say that he had a deadline coming up, and I remembered the way he used to be when he got deeply involved in whatever he was working on. There were times in high school when he’d get so fixated on a project that I had to message his friends to see if they had received any signs of life. I’d probably hear from him later.
But I didn’t.
My ideas to make plans faded with each short and slow response. I was clearly meant for a solo night, not a night with my boyfriend.
Saturday, his messages were more of the same. By the time Saturday night came around, I was starting to get concerned.
I replayed Thursday night, trying to figure out if maybe I’d done something wrong. Maybe I’d ruined things before they even got fully started, and Matt was just too scared to tell me. But I couldn’t think of anything. I’d gotten along with his friends. We’d danced, and he had been the one that suggested the bathroom when things got hot and heavy. I kissed him good night at the door instead of assuming that our bathroom hookup meant that we should have more. Which, honestly, I would’ve been more than okay with, but when he didn’t inviteme upstairs, I didn’t want a repeat of earlier in the week. I didn’t want him thinking that I was only interested in his body.
Because with Matt, it would never just be his body that I cared about.
I tossed and turned all Saturday night, and when I woke up to another threadbare response to agood morningtext, I started officially freaking out. I grabbed my phone and pressed Moira’s contact. She would be able to talk me down.
She answered on the second ring. “Shouldn’t you be cuddled up with Lover Boy?” she asked. I could hear her rolling her eyes all the way from New York.
“That’s what I’m calling you about,” I admitted, rising from my couch and beginning to pace my living room. “We hooked up. On Thursday.”
“And I’m only just now hearing about it? Rude!” She didn’t even bother disguising the offended tone of her voice. “You have never withheld hookups from me in the past. What the hell, man?”
“Can you not right now? I didn’t call to talk about the hookup.”
