Page 60 of Creatures Like Us

“Yeah. Oh fuck, Noah?…”

I enter him once more and delight in his choked whimper, but I make sure to keep to shallow thrusts, not letting the thicker part of my shaft inside. Like that, it doesn’t take long for us both to reach climax. Asher gasps helplessly as I thrust deeper into him by accident, flooding his insides with my cum.

When it’s over, I roll off him and lie by his side.

He sends me an accusing glare. “That wasn’t just the tip.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters, still glaring. “So when are you going to let me fuck you instead?”

“You’re the one who said you needed a break.”

“Yeah, well, now I need another one.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sighs and turns around to spoon me. “Stop saying that. It’s okay.”

Strangely enough, this position feels even better than when I’m spooning him. It feels?…?safer, having him touch me on his own, of his own will. When he lifts his hand—now unrestrained by chains—and puts it lightly around my throat, it feels even better.

“Let’s sleep now,” he says. “And don’t wake me up again; I need some rest if I’m gonna be able to fuck you tomorrow.” He gives my throat a squeeze, thumb digging into the edge of my jaw. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I smile into his touch, and we curl up in fetal positions, our bodies aligned and content.

I’m so glad I didn’t go through with what I was about to do in the forest. I’m so glad I stayed, and I’m so glad Asher did too.

In the kitchen the next day, I whistle a tune Auntie used to sing while I made her breakfast. She used to reach up from her wheelchair to touch the length of my hair that flowed down my back. “Such a handsome young boy you’ve become, Noah,” she said with a smile.

For the first time since she passed, the memory of her doesn’t sting like a thousand needles piercing my heart. I’m okay. Auntie is gone, but I have someone else now.

I set a bowl of pasta covered in alfredo sauce and ham on the kitchen island, where Asher sits on a barstool.

“Hell yeah,” he says before digging in. His hair is still a little ruffled from my hands in it, and he looks a bit tired with dark bags under his eyes, but fuck is he beautiful. He slurps up the sauce and the pasta, and I end up barely able to eat from my own plate, not wanting to miss a second of looking at him.

“You’re a good cook,” he says.

“I know.”

He chuckles. “Well, as long as you know.”

When he’s finished his plate and I’ve forced myself to eat a half dozen bites, I reach out a hand and slide it into his hair. He stiffens, eyes flitting to my hand, but then he relaxes into it and lets me pet him like a dog.

“You like doing that, don’t you?” he asks.

“You like it too.”

“Do I?” He smiles, but it’s a weak, affected smile, nothing like his sarcastic smirks. “Maybe.”

I keep petting him for a few moments before I let my hand fall and trace his lips with my thumb, intending to wipe away the residue of his meal, but he seems to interpret the touch differently, given the way his mouth curls into a knowing smirk.

“So,” he drawls, “when are you going to let me fuck you?” His eyes twinkle as he observes my reaction, and my cheeks burn at the heat of his gaze. He makes me feel so much; it’s unnerving.

“Later. We should take a bath first.”

“Together?”

I shrug. “Why not?”