It’s buzzing up my spine, making me a nervous fucking mess. But I’ve been that way since he showed up at my rental last night, so why not have a few more panic attacks. You know, as a treat.
And that’s probably what tips me over the edge into spilling my guts and unburdening myself. Not that it matters. He won’t understand me anyway, but something in me needs him to know. It needs him to see it on my hands, in my language.
‘Fuck you,’ I sign, and he probably at least gets that one. ‘Fuck you for showing up again when I spent so long trying to forget you. Why are you always here? Why do you have to torment me? I thought three years would make this feeling more bearable, but you show up, and once again, I can’t look away. Why are you still living rent-free in my head? Why can’t I get over you?’
My chest heaves as my hands falter, his eyes steady on my face. He doesn’t respond, because of course he doesn’t. He has no idea the words I’ve just torn myself open on and bled allover him.
But then he moves so quickly that I stumble backward. His hands go around my waist, and he pulls me into him. The towel that was clinging onto me slips to the ground, my hard length pressing up against his miraculous abs.
His hand moves up to my neck, holding on tightly, and his thumb tugs my bottom lip downward, forcing my mouth to open.
Then he hits me with a soft kiss, so tender and so fucking familiar, I melt in his arms. I fucking sink against him, my hands grasping on for purchase, a desperate sound moving up the back of my throat and into his. He swallows it, his tongue thrusting forward and tangling with mine. It’s quick and short. A promise of what’s to come. A threat of how it’ll ruin me, before he pulls back and stares.
My hands are still on his shoulders, my nails digging into the muscles there, my entire body on fire.
And then he does something that has me nearly fainting.
One hand moves up, and in a single motion, he starts to sign. He has an accent, but he’s fluid, like he’s been doing it his whole fucking life. It’s easy, clear, and I hold my breath until he’s done.
‘I understood you. I know exactly what you said. And I want to know more. But first, get on your knees and show me how much you missed me.’
My exhale meets his, and then I do something I absolutely shouldn’t. He has a girlfriend, he’s in love with someone else, but fuck…heunderstoodme.
He speaks my language.
He learned ASL.
I don’t know if I’m willing to believe he did it for me, but Idon’t care. In this moment, all that matters is what I want. All reason has been discarded for another time of self-reflection.
I fall to my knees, ripping his towel away from his hips, and I take him down in a single swallow. His hands curl in my hair as he thrusts his hips forward, and his cock tunnels down my throat.
I choke and gag, but I don’t let go. I hold on to him as he uses me, like if I release my grip, he’ll disappear.
And when he comes a minute later, it coats my tongue in that old, familiar taste I’ve been craving since the day I left.
The entire time, his eyes are on mine, watching, curious.
And so fucking angry with me.
But it’s all lost on me because the taste of him is like food for a starving man. I gladly accept it, feeling it nourish an aching, empty part of me I’ve been neglecting for the past three years. And as I try to swallow all of him down, some of it drips down my chin and onto my chest.
The sensation is so erotic, I can’t hold back. My own orgasm hits me like a freight train, and I grip my cock just once before I let go. I feel my own release escape me, hitting the shower floor, and I can’t help but wonder if it makes a noise.
I glance up, and my eyes meet his as I shudder and shake, knowing I must look like a mess. I’m covered in him. In all of our memories, as short as they were.
And despite all of it, the only thing that matters is that he’s here. That he can speak to me now.
And there’s no escaping him again.
Dex helps me up once I’ve regained my composure, his gazeintense on me as my knees start to shake. Fuck, I should rinse off. I need to get rid of the evidence of what we just did.
He seems to think the same thing because he grabs our towels off the ground and steps to the side, pulling me with him back into the stall and flipping the water on.
‘Wait for warm,’ he signs, one-handed again. And just the way those signs flow together makes me think that he’s used to doing this. Maybe he’s been practicing with his girlfriend. Maybe she’s Deaf. Maybe he found someone who could accept his hearing without prejudice.
Guilt hits me at the thought of him cheating on her with me when he ushers me under the water and his cum slips from my skin.
I don’t even move. I let it wash it away, though the guilt doesn’t abate. He helps clean me up though, soapy hands cleaning my chin, my neck, and my chest, sending tendrils of quiet pleasure through me.
