He doesn’t talk on the drive. I watch the city pass, all the familiar places warped by the reflection in the glass.
We stop at a light and he looks over, his hand now parked just above my knee.
“You good?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not.
He drives with the efficiency of someone who knows the route by heart. The whole time, I keep my hands folded in my lap, watching my own knuckles turn white.
The apartment building is new, faceless, glass and steel and not a single scrap of personality. We take an elevator up, and he unlocks the door with a swipe of his phone.
Inside, everything is perfect. Minimalist.
The only splash of color is a print of some hockey arena, but it’s hung crooked, which is maybe the most honest thing I’ve seen all night.
He offers me a drink. “I’ve got scotch, if you’re feeling dangerous,” he says. I say, “Whatever you’re having.” He pours two, neat, and hands me one.
We sit on the couch. The music is softer now, almost background, and I wonder if he does this every weekend. I wonder if he’s ever had to work this hard.
He slides closer, his knee against mine. He runs his hand through my hair, gentle, then trails his fingers down the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone like he’s cataloging a detail for later.
He kisses me again, this time slower, but still with that edge of “I’m in charge here.” His hands are everywhere, tracing my shoulders, my arms, then slipping under the hem of my shirt. I let him.
I let him do anything he wants, because I want to want it, even if it’s never going to feel the way I need.
He breaks the kiss, catches his breath, and says, “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
I nod, and it’s true. Maybe not him, but something. Anything to drown out the other thing.
He stands, leads me by the hand to the bedroom. It’s as spotless as the rest, bed made, sheets tight, one pillow with a crease that says it’s never been used.
He pulls off his shirt, drops it to the floor, then steps in, unzips my hoodie, pulls it off slow, like he’s unwrapping a present.
His mouth goes to my neck, teeth nipping just enough to leave a mark, and his hands are already on my belt, working it open with the skill of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
I close my eyes, let him move me where he wants, let him push me down onto the bed and climb on top.
His body is lean, wiry, but strong.
He holds my wrists down, kisses my jaw, then bites my earlobe, all of it practiced, but not unpleasant. I’m hard, but it feels like it’s happening to someone else.
He grinds against me, his breath speeding up, his hand sliding down to cup me through my jeans. I arch up, give him what he wants, and he moans, the sound half-laugh, half-growl.
He undresses me with surgical precision, peeling off layers, always keeping at least one hand on my skin, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
Naked, I feel cold and exposed, but he covers me with his body, his mouth finding every spot that will make me gasp. He’s good at this. Too good.
He sucks me off with relentless focus, never looking away, his eyes locked on mine the whole time. I want to close them, but I can’t. Not when he’s watching.
I come fast, embarrassingly fast, and he swallows, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins up at me. “Told you you’d like it.”
He slides up, kisses me again, and his tongue tastes like whiskey and salt and a little bit of me.
He doesn’t stop there. He rolls me over, spoons me, presses his dick against my ass, but doesn’t try to go further.
He just holds me, one arm across my chest, mouth at my neck. I can feel his heart pounding against my back.
I lie there, staring at the blank wall, and count the seconds until I fall asleep.
