Page 35

35

Ben Stirling

I have no idea what I’m doing, but I like it. Jeremiah’s zipper is stuck, fly halfway open, and my hand is crammed into his pants. He’s hard and leaking, a solid bar that’s slippery against the palm of my hand.

He steps from side to side and moans into my mouth every time I put pressure on him. I like that too.

Though I’m fumbling, there’s an urgency to my actions. An importance. A need. When I finally manage to wrestle him free, I look down and breathe in the sight that greets me.

His dick is erect. Pink, almost purple, and it’s slick at the tip. He’s cut, and the head of his dick is smooth and shiny from how swollen it is.

It’s inviting in a way I’m not expecting. Attractive in a way I feel low down. Fascinating in a base way that stirs old things up inside me.

I’m horny and nervous, trying to stroke him off but struggling to work out the right way to hold him. I’m making a mess of things. I try wrapping my hand around him with my thumb and forefinger closest to his body, but that feels uncomfortable, and I can’t get my rhythm right. I turn my hand so my pinkie is closest to his body, and I’m tugging at him, but that feels even more clumsy.

The whole time, Jeremiah keeps his eyes on me. Liquid blue burns brightly. His mouth opens and closes rhythmically, and each time I lean in to steal a kiss, he moans more. Not moans exactly, more like whimpers. More like the sound a small animal makes when it’s scared and you pet it.

I like it a lot.

I like it so much that, combined with the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing, it makes me laugh. I can’t stop. I’m not laughing, actually. I’m giggling. And I’m not really much of a giggler. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I heard a sound like this coming from me.

Every time I change the way I handle him, Jeremiah makes this cute little snarl and stomps his foot in frustration. I can hardly describe how much I love it. His cheeks are pink and he looks drunk. Really drunk. Drunker than the night of the curtains and all the tequila. Seeing him like this is more than hot. It’s intoxicating. Unexpected and surprising.

It’s more-ish.

Delectable.

Adorable.

Yes, it’s adorable. Jeremiah is adorable. It’s not a word I’d typically use in reference to men, but that’s what he is. He has this irrepressible cuteness about him. It’s the curls and those eyes and that face. It’s more than that though. It’s the way he carries himself. He holds himself on a ledge. On an edge. On the edge of everything. Every emotion is right there, under the surface. He’s on the cusp of embarrassing himself at any moment. The cusp of cracking a joke. The cusp of saying something so meaningful and deep that it makes me feel like it’s okay for me to do the same.

An old, familiar feeling rolls through me. It climbs up my back, making the hair on my neck stand on end. My field of vision narrows, and Jeremiah becomes my focal point. I have his head in one hand and his cock in the other. It’s good. It’s right. I want to keep him like this. I want to surround him. I want to guard and defend him despite the fact that he’s in no imminent danger. I want to mantle him with my body. My muscle and bone. I want to be near him. Close to him. So close that if anyone or anything approaches him, they’ll have to go through me to get to him.

The realization is a jarring. A blunt shock.

I’m protective of him.

I’m protective of Jeremiah.

Protectiveness is part of my nature. Part of who I am. Who I used to be. Who I’ve always been. It’s a brand of emotion I haven’t felt for many people. Something that usually takes a long time to develop. Something I only feel when the person inspiring it is significant to me.

I take a deep breath, hoping it will bring clarity. It does.

Jeremiah, the man in my arms, the man I want to keep from harm, needs something. He needs release. He needs to feel good. He needs to come.

It’s my job to make him feel good.

“C’mere,” I say, surprised and unsurprised by the rough edge in my tone.

I circle his waist with one arm and lift him off his feet, dragging him backward with me as I lie back on the sofa. He flails for a second as I arrange him, stilling when he has his back to my belly and he’s lying snugly between my parted legs. I tug at his jeans until the zipper rips open and his cock is freed completely. I shift myself up and shift him down until he’s right where I want him.

When I reach down now, his cock is exactly where I want it. It’s in reach. Easy reach between my legs. It’s almost where my own cock is. It’s almost like I’m stroking myself. It feels good. The angle is right. My grip is firm and sure.

I’m not laughing anymore.

He’s not whimpering either. He’s moaning now.

He’s hot in my hand. Familiar and new. Unknown and known. I stroke him the way I stroke myself. He thrashes in my arms, trying to keep still and take what I give him. His moans are pained. Perfect. The weight of him is solid and sturdy.

More than I’m used to.

Just what I want.

I hold him tightly with my free hand, arm wrapped around his chest so he knows I have him, and turn my head so he feels my words on his skin before he hears them.

“Show me,” I murmur, moving my hand and replacing it with his. He whines and thrashes but obeys immediately, and fuck, the things that does to me. I watch, transfixed, as he jerks himself. He presses down on the base with his thumb and uses his other hand like a hole, sliding it up and down. He works his shaft hard, carefully avoiding the tip.

It’s hot in a way that makes me feel crazy.

“Keep your thumb there,” I say, replacing his dominant hand with mine and stroking him the way he stroked himself.

He feels the same as me but different. He’s a little smaller. More compact. Sinewy to touch and maybe more sensitive, given the way he’s bucking.

I’m learning, watching, observing, trying to work him out, and then I’m not.

His hot, hard body struggles and rattles my cage until a deadbolt slides loose, and I break free. I know these sounds, these noises, these feelings. I know the tension in his body. The way he’s arching and clutching at my arm.

“You’re going to come for me,” I tell him.

And he does.

Instantly.

Spectacularly.

He swells in my hand and tenses so hard it’s like he’s made of concrete. A second later my hand is flooded with heat that overflows onto his belly. He winces, and his whole body trembles with each subsequent spurt.

He’s boneless afterward. Sleepy and drugged. Hardly able to lift his own head. All the same, he sinks to his knees and opens his mouth for me as I unbuckle my belt and unzip my fly. He looks so sweet kneeling for me it makes my face hot. He licks me and mewls, sucking me once or twice before resting his head on my thigh and using his hand when his head becomes too heavy to hold up on his own. He attempts to stroke me, his grip loose and uncoordinated. Adorable. Addictive.

I run my fingers through his hair. “Just open your mouth, okay, baby? All you have to do is swallow what I give you. I’ll do the rest.”

When he does as I ask, I see gratitude and acceptance stoking embers in his eyes. Tiny flickers that light up where like, want, and need intercept.

I clamber to my feet, spreading my legs and looking down at him.

He’s gorgeous.

Pleasure roars through me as I circle myself firmly. Heavy reverberations shake the ground I’m standing on. There’s pressure everywhere. Urgency. It’s universal. It’s all I know. It builds quickly, growing dizzyingly, mind-numbingly fast into something bigger than me. My hips rock. My fist clenches. Jeremiah tilts his head back and shows me his tongue.

I come so hard that black and gold dots dance on the ceiling.

I’m on the sofa. On my back. Lying down. Floating. Jeremiah swallowed everything I gave him, and for good measure, he licked me clean afterward. When we were done, he stood and got us water from the kitchen. He must have because there are two half-full glasses on the coffee table and the downlights over the stovetop are on now and they weren’t before. The light is finding the irregularities in the tile and making them glitter.

Jeremiah is curled against my chest, lying on his side with his legs curled up tightly. Every time my pulse slows, he whispers, “Thank you,” and makes it race again.

I drift. Conscious thought fades and goes dim. I dip in and out. Sailing across cerulean waters when my eyes close, finding solid ground when they open.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, but I think it’s a long time. It must be because I feel like I’ve healed from a long illness when I wake. Like I’ve had one of those sleeps you have when you have a high fever. When you’re hot and feverish when you go down, and you wake up weak but new.

Jeremiah has rallied. He’s recovered faster and better than I have. He’s still on me, but he’s not curled up anymore. He’s stretched out, belly-to-belly, propping himself up with his arms on my chest. He’s looking at me expectantly. He’s animated and has the look of one primed for a lively conversation.

“You okay?” I check, even though a fool could see he’s bounced back just fine.

“Oh, I’m hundreds,” he chirps. “Hungry but hundreds. Hungry, hundreds, and wired.” I’m not sure what hundreds means exactly, but I’m guessing something along the lines of a hundred percent. That’s good. I want him to feel good. I want him to feel a hundred percent fine. That’s important to me. “More to the point though. How do you feel?”

“Hundreds,” I mumble, giving a weak thumbs-up. “Came hard.”

“I’m aware.” He laughs, slapping my chest softly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, how are you about everything.”

He does that thing where he climbs into my mood and holds it open.

He isn’t rough. He does it slowly and gently. So slowly and so gently that I have no way of putting up my defenses.

The thing about me is I like being the one who’s fine. The one who’s strong and in charge. It’s a big deal to me and a big part of who I am. The thing about Jeremiah is that he’s under my skin, and I can’t keep secrets from him.

“Was that okay for you?” he asks. “The whole touching a dick that isn’t yours thing?”

“It was good,” I say. “Really good.” I mean to stop there, but the truth comes tumbling out of me. “I…I didn’t know how I’d feel about it. I wanted it in an abstract way beforehand. A curious, questioning kind of way where I really wasn’t sure what it was going to be like in reality. I thought it would feel really new, and it did, but it also…didn’t. I thought I’d like it because I like you. And I did. I liked it because I like you and want to make you feel good, but I liked it more than that. I liked it for me too.”

He hums and squirms in my arms, dropping his head and resting his forehead against my lips for a long while. “Damn, Captain,” he whispers, head still bowed. “You’re good.”

I slide my hand down his back, down the arch, up the swell of his ass, and swat him playfully, just hard enough to make him look up.

“You know exactly what you’re doing with that Captain shit, don’t you?”

His eyes widen in a picture of faux innocence, and then he kisses me softly, stamping his lips lightly against mine a few times before doing it harder. Longer. Our tongues dance together, and whatever it is that makes us two separate people begins to disintegrate. It’s the Sunday morning of kisses. A sunny Sunday. Warm but not hot. A sunny Sunday morning where the day stretches out ahead of you, and you have no plans to leave home.

By the time it ends, I can’t tell up from down and I have no idea what day of the week it is.

Jeremiah’s expression is on the cusp again. This time, it’s on the cusp of something big and serious. I feel the shift before he speaks. “How do you feel about the fact that you’ve been with someone who isn’t Liz?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and weighted. It hurts, but I like it. Need it. Jeremiah rests his head on my chest, crown near my chin, and lets me feel what I need to without making me look at him.

Eventually, I say, “I thought I’d feel like I was cheating. That’s how I felt whenever I thought about doing things with women who weren’t her. Bad. Wrong.” I tighten my grip on him and raise my head so my nose is buried in curls and the scent of his hair envelops me. “It didn’t feel like that,” I whisper. “It didn’t feel anything like that.”

Neither of us moves for a long time. We don’t talk either, but I feel heard. I’m grateful he can hear me without talking because I don’t know how to put this emotion into words. I’m not sure there are words for it.

I’ve been angry for so long. I was angry about lots of things. About Luca growing up without a mother. About me growing old on my own. Angry that Liz died young. Angry that a world exists without her. Most of all, I was angry that, for me, the world stopped turning, but for everyone else, life went on.

Life went on.

Games were played, lost, and won. Groceries were delivered and meals were made. Laundry was washed, dried, and folded. The sun set and rose again.

The world kept turning, but I was frozen.

I love Liz, and of course, I still miss her. That hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will, but for the first time since she died, there’s a creak in my bones, a sideways tilt, a pause and a lurch.

It’s slight. Barely there. Blink and you’ll miss it.

It’s so subtle most people wouldn’t feel it. The only reason I do is because it’s been so long since it last happened. I hold on to Jeremiah as tightly as possible and close my eyes to fight the vertigo that accompanies movement after a long time of standing still.

There’s a deep, dull clank as a lever shifts. I cling to him, grateful and happy and sad and ready, yes, ready, for the second the earth beneath me slots into its axis and slowly begins to rotate once more.