The part of me he touched last night with those words seems to open up like arms for an embrace.
“I’m not sore anymore,” he whispers against my lips.
And that, when he does that, when he says those things to me or when he gazes at me with those soft green eyes, like I’m the best thing. Like there’s nothing else or no one else he’d rather see. I love it and I can’t stand it. I get this kick, this jab, that I’d do anything for him. I kiss him so deep I’m near drowning. Fuck, I’d do anything.
His fingers wrap around my cock, getting me more aroused than I already was. I grab his ass, he groans in my mouth, and tries to get underneath me.
But, I don’t know. My senses come back. The spell breaks like a glass knocked off the table. I slow our hungry kiss, pull away from him.
“We need to get back,” I say.
The disappointment on his face is obvious.
“It’s not that I don’t want to, pal….it’s just…”
“Just that it wouldn’t be quick.” He tilts his head a little.
“Would you want it to be?”
“No.”
I run my fingers through his damp hair. “We’ll save it then. For when it doesn’t need to be quick.”
He gives me a small smile, then he’s up, getting dressed.
And my painting is ruined.
One thing is for sure: I will never be able to escape.
Months from now, years from now, I’ll still be held captive. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, aching and sweating, and I’ll chain smoke until my lungs give out. I’ll desperately search in one of those joints in the city for someone to fill the void. I might even fuck some guy like he’s never been fucked before, but it won’t be enough. I’ll be an empty shell afterward and then I’ll find myself just going along — riding, walking, talking — and suddenly, like a flash of lightning, I’ll be struck with a memory. Sight, sound, scent. And I’ll be shackled and caged, unable to get away from the sound of his voice, the light of desire in his eyes, and the feel of him in my arms.
And the thing is, he’s got no idea.
Not a clue.
He even says to me, when I get us back that afternoon, standing in front of me with those big doe eyes, his thick hair neat as a pin, and his clothes all neat too, like he’s stepped out of a catalog—and it’s amazing, just fucking amazing that he can look that way— and so he’s standing there, right in front of me, and he says,
“Don’t worry. I won’t start bothering you or anything. Just because…” He stops there, pushes up those glasses and that,thatmakes me want to grab him like a bandit with a sack of money, run back to the cabin with him, and take his body, his heart, claim it all for my very own. Mine, mine, mine. The greed inside me, it’s the deadliest of the sins, so I might as well choose my own coffin.
But he says that to me.
Bother.What kind of shit is that?
But I say, as smooth and cool as I can manage, I say, “It’s okay, pal. I’m not bothered.” I wait until those soft green irises meet my own. “Not at all.”
His expression lightens, and he leans toward me like a flower toward the sun.
I look around us, wary. “Next weekend, huh?”
He nods, a private smile on his lips. “Can I come by before that? I promise I won’t stay long. Just to say hi…or…?”
What I want to say is yes. I want to say that I want him in my bed every single night. I want to say that I can’t wait. I don’t want to go even an hour without feeling his lips on mine, hearing his voice. Getting that slim hard body beneath me, those long limbs wrapped around me, making him come like he’s never come before, watch those eyes look up at me like shining emeralds, begging me for more, pleading with me to need him and want him like air and water and the still summer nights.
I’m tumbling down a hole and there is nothing to catch me. Can’t he see it? I feel as if it’s radiating from me like molten lava. I feel as if this storm he has so effortlessly whipped up within me is right in front of his face.
But he doesn’t know, that’s the thing of it. He’s got no idea.
And I don’t think I’m that smooth.
