I don't slow down or stop. I want to feel him lose it.
He tries to warn me, always thinking of me first. "I'm gonna… fuck… pull off if you don't want—"
I don't pull off. I take him deeper. Swallow hard around the head. His body arches off the bed, back bowing, thighs locking, a raw, shattered groan tearing out of him. Hot pulses flood my mouth, salty, endless. I swallow every drop, working him through it, sucking gently, tongue laving the sensitive head until he's whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.
When the last tremor fades, I pull off slow and rest my cheek against the thick muscle of his thigh, looking up. He'swrecked. His chest heaving, eyes glassy, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
"You okay up there?" I ask.
"I think I'm dead. I've died, Stormy. This is the afterlife. And it's really good. Heaven is your mouth, storm-gray eyes and you swallowing me like that. I'm never leaving this place."
"Don't put that on a t-shirt," I say, teasing him.
"I would never," he says. "That's my secret to keep and I'm not sharing."
I crawl back up and settle against his chest. His arm wraps around me, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.
"For the record," he says into the dark, still wrecked, "the blue balls are officially gone. Cured. A medical miracle performed by one Stormy in sweatpants and that sinful fucking mouth."
I laugh against his skin. "Glad I could help."
"You performed multiple miracles tonight. Beat a man half to death, then came upstairs and sucked my soul out through my dick. You're the most talented person alive. I'm nominating you for sainthood. Or at least blowjob sainthood. Is that a thing? It should be."
"That's a weird compliment. Even from you."
"My brain isn't working. You broke it. With those sweatpants this morning and your mouth just now and everything in between. My brain is done. Here's my final thought. Last one. I promise. When I'm eighty and telling this story on the deck, I'll leave out the blowjob parts. The public version will be Stormy wore the shirt, beat the man, saved the day. The private version includes everything that happened behind the bar this morning and everything that just happened in this bed and the fact that I have been at somestage of arousal for approximately eighteen consecutive hours. I have a medical condition. Symptoms include: permanent attraction to a blonde man in sweatpants, inability to form sentences, and undying love. Bad news, Stormy. There's no cure. You're stuck with me."
I smile into his chest. The real smile.
The one that's mine now.
Epilogue: Stormy
It's the third week in October.
We've been working fourteen-hour days for three weeks getting the first floor ready for the big October bike rally. Tonight, the work is done and the bar is closed. Sheila went home an hour ago with a kiss on my forehead and a reminder to make sure Tex eats food that isn't brisket.
We're upstairs in bed. Tex is on his back with one arm behind his head and the other around me. It's been one month since the night Ron came, and my nightmare with him in the starring role ended.
Tex is half asleep. His breathing is slowing into the deep, even rhythm that means he's drifting. He's warm. The furnace that I curl against every night.
I need to talk to him about something I've been thinking about for weeks.
I'm ready.
"Tex."
"Hmm."
"Wake up. I need to talk to you."
He wakes up instantly. Half-asleep to fully alert in the time it takes me to say I need to talk. He shifts, pulls me closer, looks down at me.
"What's up?"
"Nothing's wrong. I want to talk to you about something."
"Okay." He relaxes slightly. "What do you need to talk about?"
