Page 34

34

Jeremiah Blake

It’s been a dreamy day. A day of dreams. A daydream without interruptions or an abrupt ending. I’ve spent the day with Ben. We’ve chilled and talked and kissed. We must have also done other things, but I’m not sure what they were. At one point, we hung paintings that had been leaning against the wall in the living room above one of the sofas. We struggled to work out the right height for them, so I’m pretty sure it happened. At another, he made me a sandwich. My recall is blurry, disjointed, and overly clear, the way daydreams often are, but I’m absolutely sure about the sandwich because when I got in his way in the kitchen, he lifted me by the hips, plonked me onto the counter, and planted a blistering kiss on my lips.

He lifted me as though I were weightless.

I know it happened. I remember it for a fact because it turned me into such mush that I had to hold on to the beveled marble surface with both hands and breathe slowly through my nose to stop myself from sliding to my feet, dropping my pants, bending myself over the counter, and begging him to fuck me as hard as he could.

So, we’ve had moments like that, but we’ve also had moments of complete normality. We’ve laughed about silly things. Ben talked at length about starting a vegetable patch. I’ve talked about the dragon book, which I seem to be reading despite not being a fantasy reader.

Hours have flown by. It’s getting late, almost time for dinner, Ben’s rumbling something about takeout, and while I’m listening and invested in what he’s saying, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s absent. There’s an emptiness in the house. A missing. A lack of something.

“What do you think the little man’s up to?” I ask when the lack of Luca becomes too loud to ignore.

“Not sure.” Ben’s expression changes from nonchalant to hopeful. “D’you think we should call him?”

“Definitely.”

“A two-night sleepover is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s way too much. He’s only six. He’s probably having an awful time and wishing he was home.”

“He probably feels too bad to call me to come get him because Rory and Cam are there. He hero-worships them.”

“Peer pressure is a terrible thing, isn’t it? Even at this age.”

“Should I call?” he asks.

“Yes.” I tap his shoulder with urgency. “Call, call, call.”

Ben makes small talk with his mother-in-law for a couple of minutes. It’s a video call, so I stay out of sight, but even so, I can tell Ellen is reluctant to admit that Luca isn’t having fun. I suppose no one wants to admit things like that when they’re the one hosting the sleepover. Eventually, she says, “Will you feel better if I put him on?”

A trio of boys thunder down the hall, and Luca’s face fills the screen in Ben’s hand. “Best sleepover ever ,” he bellows. His face is ruddy with joy. It’s a sentiment shared by his cousins, and no amount of careful cajoling can shake a confession of wanting to come home loose.

“Hmph,” says Ben, ending the call after receiving strict instructions not to fetch Luca before ten tomorrow morning because, and I quote, “Granny makes pancakes on Saturdays and Sundays.”

“Guess he’s not completely hating it,” I say.

“No. Guess not.”

“That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“So nice.”

We look at each other and burst out laughing.

“I know I’m a sad sack,” says Ben. “What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse? My excuse is that Luca’s an abnormally cute child. He is. He’s adorable. There’s no way you can be around him and be in a bad mood. He’s the best, Ben. He’s a great kid. A really, really great kid.”

“Thanks.” His shoulders ride up and his eyes shine with pride.

“You’re a good dad to him. A really, really good dad.”

“Thanks,” he says again, voice a little more raspy this time.

We’re standing close from being on the call. His head dips down toward mine, but instead of kissing me, which is what he’s done every other time he’s leaned in today, he circles me with his arms, tucking his chin over my shoulder and resting it there. I do the same, winding my arms around his neck and pulling him close.

His breathing catches and he tightens his grip. He feels hard and solid and soft at the same time. He feels like the place I want to rest my head on at night and the place I want to wake up in the morning.

Neither of us moves for the longest time, and by the time we do, the embrace has changed. It’s gone from comforting and affectionate to something different. Every cell in my body is alive with it. The only thing I can see, feel, and smell is Ben. He smells like a man. Like hockey and ice and hot things. Like laughter on porch swings. Like safety and things that scare me.

“Is your belly aching?” he asks.

As he says it, there’s a pang deep in my belly. Low down. A sharp twist that makes my balls ache. I’ve been aware of it off and on all day but have mostly been able to ignore it because of the jubilation and disbelief about what’s happening with Ben.

Suddenly, it’s the only thing I can think of.

“Yeah,” I say, looking down and rubbing my palms hard against my jeans to stop myself from rutting against him.

“Mine too.” There’s a question in his eyes. Not quite a request exactly, but the early murmur of a high-level query.

The urge to fall to my knees is so strong that I shift my weight from one leg to the other and lean against Ben to mitigate it. I’ve been tempted to ask him if he wants me to blow him again. I’ve thought about it twenty-eight million times since I got here. And that’s a conservative estimate. I’m not sure if I should though. I don’t want to make the first move, partly because I don’t want to go through the nightmare of overanalyzing my actions again and partly because I think he might prefer to be the one to initiate things like this.

I shouldn’t be the one who brings it up. I’m not going to mention it. I’m going to wait patiently until he says something.

“Would you like me to blow you again?” says the part of my brain that controls speech but not rational thought.

His hand rides up and down my back, settling on my hip and jerking me closer.

“Oh,” he growls, “you’re going to blow me again, baby. You are. Just not…not like last night. You’re not going to come like that again. On your own. Without my hands on you. Next time you taste my dick, it will be after I’ve taken you apart.”

“Gguck,” I say.

He’s not done yet. Far from it.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know. Shooting my shot…making my move. Been thinking about it all day.” He rests his forehead against mine, and he’s not Ben the Sex God now. He’s Ben the Sweetest Man on the Planet, and damn, he makes my knees weak. “Just trying to remember how the hell I used to shoot my shot a long time ago, in the old days, when I was moving to do something I’d never done before.”

“You don’t have to,” I say in a rush. “I don’t mind. I don’t have to… We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to do things,” he murmurs, lips moving against my ear, breath running down my neck like warm honey. “I want to do all the things, but I’m new at this…” The smile he gives me is a killer. A blade straight to the heart. “And I’m learning. I guess we’ll have to take it slow… Guess you’ll have to be gentle with me.”

I nod and shake my head and gurgle the way putty would if it was sentient and irrevocably aroused.

He hooks a finger under my chin and raises it so I’m looking directly at him and says, “Here’s what I’m thinking. I take off some of your clothes, you hold still for a while…and I touch you a bunch. Just to, like, feel my way around you.”

My shoulders shudder like they did last night. Hard and fast. From side to side like I’ve been shaken. “K-k-kay.”

He uses both hands to smooth my T-shirt down over my chest. I watch them, big and broad, heavy and hot, as he lays them on me.

“Uh-uh,” he says, using two fingers to motion to his face, “eyes up here. On me, the whole time, okay?”

I nod and say, “Gggg.”

I’m glad he told me to look at him. It’s good. It’s a gluttonous, greedy man’s luxury to watch him as he slowly lifts my T-shirt up. It’s a blessing because my brain is severely offline, and God only knows where I’d be looking or what I’d be doing if he hadn’t told me. It’s nice. Brainless and safe. There’s no guessing. No chance I’m embarrassing myself. Or if I am, I’m embarrassing myself in a way he wants, and that’s a-okay with me.

On the other hand, it’s torture because Ben, when he’s undressing me, is a thing of such beauty that it hurts to look directly at him. Every time he uncovers more skin, the corners of his eyes crease and he gives a little smirk. The sweetest, sexiest little smirk I’ve ever seen. A smirk that’s happy and inexperienced and pleased with itself at the same time.

When my T-shirt lies on the floor, he swipes a heavy hand over my chest, starting at my clavicle and sliding slowly down my body. I tense when he grazes my nipple. He doesn’t miss it. He works his hand down, curling it so his knuckles dust my lower belly before traveling up again. He strokes my pecs lightly, barely touching me but causing my pink skin to tighten all the same.

“Are these sensitive?” he asks, rolling both nipples between a thumb and forefinger.

“S-so sensitive,” I stammer as I fight the hard shiver that threatens. My knees are locked, arms stiff at my sides. There’s something unbearable about watching Ben’s face as he touches me. It’s so intimate, so sweet, I can hardly take it. He looks happy. Really happy. He keeps smiling and murmuring to himself as he runs his hands over every part of my chest.

Now and again, he says, “I like this,” to different parts of my body.

When he’s done, he cards his fingers through my hair, tightening slightly, just the smallest, most perfect amount, so my scalp tingles when his fist clenches at the base of my skull.

He was looking down before, at my arms, my neck, my chest, as he touched me. Now he’s looking into me. His eyes are blazing. Burning. Blue-white.

He places his free hand on my sternum and slides it down slowly, hand turning so his fingertips lead the way. His movements are painfully slow, so slow that I start jabbering, “You don’t have to,” and “It’s fine. I-I don’t mind.”

He keeps his eyes open as he kisses me softly, licking into my mouth in a way I understand is a gentle warning. He’s in charge, not me. “I want to.”

He holds me firmly in place as his fingers worry the waistband of my jeans. I’m not wearing a belt, and the jeans I’m wearing are my pottery jeans. They’re stained, and they lost their top button years ago. I’m about to explain all that to him when he bites one side of his bottom lip. There’s a short pause where neither of us moves.

A second later, he’s cupping my cock and balls through denim.

“Oooh,” I splutter, almost losing my legs.

His eyes are still on me, soft and warm, as he blinks in amazement. “You’re so hard,” he whispers.

“Nng,” I say in agreement as my eyes cross briefly and then find their slightly out-of-focus focus back on Ben.

He moves his hand up and then down.

I see stars.

Ben’s right. I am hard. I’m harder than I was last night, and that was the hardest I’ve been in my life. I’m so hard now that I’m stepping on the spot, mewling helplessly as Ben touches me.

His touch is tentative, light, and unsure, paired with the sexy, soft sound of his laughter. He giggles every time he touches me. He’s not laughing at me. He wouldn’t do that. He’s laughing because he’s happy. Because he’s having fun.

He’s said, “Wow,” five or six times now, and every time he does, it makes me happier and hornier than the last time he did it.

He uses the hand in my hair to steer me in for a filthy, open-mouth kiss. This time, it’s clumsy. His tongue strokes mine hard and unapologetically, and it’s paired with a guttural sound that comes from low down in Ben’s belly.

He struggles with my zipper. My hands float at my sides, ready to help him if he tells me to. The zipper gets stuck halfway down, but it doesn’t matter. I breathe in, pulling my belly in to give him enough space to get his hand into my pants.

He takes it. It’s a little rough, rough enough to jostle me from side to side and force a soft gasp out of me. It’s a fight, a push and pull, but at last, he finds purchase. His skin touches my skin.

I almost come on the spot.

The only reason I don’t is because he raises a single brow and says, “Slowly.”

Everything slows. Not just the orgasm thundering toward me but my mind and my breathing too.

My heart triples its pace.