Page 44

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Jeremiah Blake

I’ve never been this aware of my body. Of where I start and where I end. I feel it all in relation to where Ben is. The space between us is an ache. The glass is an icy blockade.

He’s pacing. Slow, languid movements that follow the perimeter of the cubicle I’m in. One pace to the left, a corner, two paces right.

Again.

Again.

His hand drags along the glass as he moves, stopping and wiping aggressively now and again. An attempt to clear the steam even though the fog on the glass is on the inside with me, not on the outside with him.

Though he’s behaving like an animal confined, I’m the one in a cage. Boxed in by porcelain tile and large panes of glass. The door is unlocked, but still, I’m trapped.

“Ride it and stroke, baby,” he says.

My hips buck backward obediently before my brain has time to command it. The toy slides in and out of me, slippery and smooth. Cooler than what I’m used to. Narrower too.

I whine in pleasure as my fist swallows my dick and I start stroking like he told me.

I feel Ben’s gaze like hot oil on my skin. Thick and decadent. Self-indulgent in the extreme. I like having his eyes on me. I like having his attention focused solely and completely on me. It’s a drug, and I’m addicted.

I move my body wantonly. Wildly. More lustfully than I ever have before. The toy frustrates me, drip-feeding my lust yet not quite enough to sate it. It hits my spot, but not the way Ben hits it. My hand feels good too, but it doesn’t feel like Ben’s hand. Or Ben’s mouth.

Ben swipes at the glass again. A big, ungainly swipe that makes no difference to the steam whatsoever. He howls in frustration. No, not howls, growls.

That’s right. Ben, my beautiful, famous ex-hockey player neighbor, confirmed sex God, and the sweetest man I’ve ever met, is growling. At me. Because of me.

His hands are clenched on the edge of the glass, rattling it. His teeth are clenched too. His pupils are blown out and there’s a wildness in the black I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t blink as he starts tearing at his clothes, ripping his shirt open, and making that sound over and over. A low grumble. A guttural snarl that makes the whole room vibrate.

He kicks his shoes and socks off and shoves his jeans down as he yanks open the shower door. It takes me several seconds to register what’s happening because it’s so completely out of character, so completely unlike anything I’ve seen happen before.

Ben Stirling is out of control.

The shower door clanks closed once he’s inside. His jeans are around his ankles getting more soaked by the second. He knocks a hand against the faucet, killing the downpour, and reaches for me. His hand wraps around the back of my neck and guides me downward more firmly than he ever has before. I’ve barely had time to open my mouth when he thrusts. Hard. He fills my mouth deeply and completely.

The second the salt bursts on my tongue, I’m right there with Ben.

Gone.

Away.

Lost to the world.

He fucks my throat so thoroughly that I’m thrown backward with each thrust, impaled so deeply by the toy that my ass cheeks splay open, mashing against icy wall tile. Pleasure attacks from every angle, and I really do mean every angle. I’m so full I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is surrender to the fullness. The excess. The merciless drag of a cock in my throat and another pounding my ass.

Ben’s babbling, saying things like, “I thought about this…before I knew I was thinking about it. Wanted it… Wanted it before I knew…I wanted it. Wanted you. Want you. Want you. Oh God, Jeremiah. I want you so much.”

The hand on the back of my head releases, and I come up spluttering and gasping for air. I don’t need to look in the vanity mirror to know what I look like. Wrecked. Fucked. Wrecked and fucked to within an inch of my life, and so fucking happy about it that I can’t wipe the drunk smile off my face because as bad as I look, beautiful Ben looks even worse.

“Turn around and bend over for me, darlin’. Arch your back and relax as hard as you can, baby. Hurry, I can’t wai—”

He cuts himself off with a groan that shoots up my spine as he fucks into me with a single, solid thrust. Pleasure rewrites neural pathways. Bones break and knit themselves back together. His movements are jerky and not nearly as coordinated as usual. It doesn’t matter. In fact, it only makes it hotter.

He pulls me upright so I’m closer to him and doubles his speed. He’s panting behind me. Clawing my hips and biting my neck. I love it. I live for it. I’ll live life a thousand times over if this is how I get to die.

Pleasure swirls around me, wrapping around my legs and winding its way up my thighs. I’d touch myself if Ben told me, but he hasn’t, so I don’t. Emotion swirls around me too. In me. In my chest, in my mind, in my throat. It swells and swells until it’s so big I have to clamp my hand hard over my mouth to keep it in.

The words.

The feeling.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

It’s not that I’m scared to say it. I mean it so deeply that I want to hear myself saying the words. It’s not even that I’m afraid Ben won’t say it back. I’m pretty sure he would because he’s so lovely he’ll probably feel bad not to. It’s that if or when he says it, I want to know he means it. I want to know, with every fiber of my being, that I’m not alone. That he feels what I feel.

It’s a lot to hold in, especially when my thoughts are coming through so slowly. Fortunately, Ben’s big, hot hand wraps around my dick and wipes my mind clean.

Every joint in my body cracks at once.

We’re in bed. My bed. Lying sprawled out naked on top of my bedspread. Best I can tell, Ben carried me here because I’m numb from the waist down and I sure as shit couldn’t have gotten here on my own. I have my head on his chest, and he’s rambling. His voice sounds different, coming at me through his rib cage. Far away, but also close. Deep and woody, almost.

“…Going to buy one of those kits. You know, those kits you use to make a mold of your cock?”

That gets my attention. I open my eyes wide and flick them at Ben. “What molds are those now?”

“Dick molds,” he says in a way that leaves me unclear if he’s joking or being totally serious. “I’m going to make a mold of my dick.” He pats my ass lightly, so I’m under no illusion about who he’s talking to. “And you’re going to help me. We’re going to take our time and get it just right. I want every ridge, every vein to be perfect. Identical to the real thing.”

“And then?” I ask.

“And then, we’re going to have it made into a dildo and mount it on your wall. And I’m going to fuck you like that again. In both holes. Both ends. Only next time, there’ll be two of my cocks filling you.”

I laugh and groan feebly, unable to tell if I’m high on endorphins or whether that really is a damn good idea.

“Okay, we can do that. Just one thing, though, it can’t be skin color. I can’t handle dildos that are lifelike.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know… I just have this visceral reaction to them. You know this ugly shock-panic, this oh-no-there’s-been-a-terrible-terrible-accident feeling when I see lifelike dick toys.”

Ben bursts out laughing. “Fine. How does hot pink sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Ben’s phone rings, and he makes his way to the bathroom to retrieve it from the pile of clothes on the floor, muttering, “Who the hell can that be…? Oh shit… Hi, Ames. Is everything okay?”

I’m on my feet in an instant. “Is it Luca?” I hiss. “Is he okay? Is something wrong? Is he hurt? Is he cold?”

“He’s fine,” Ben says, holding his hand over the speaker. “His tooth finally fell out, though, and he’s having some concerns about whether the tooth fairy will be able to find him if he’s not in his own bed.”

“He lost his tooth? Oh, he must be so happy.” I tap Ben on the shoulder. “Ben, Ben, tell Amy to put the tooth in a big envelope and seal it. I’m serious, tell her now, it’s important. It’s a very small tooth. He could lose it otherwise.”

“D’you get that, Ames? Sealed envelope?” There are a few inaudible squeaks from the other end of the line, and when Ben hangs up, he says, “She’s on it.”

By the time Amy arrives, Ben and I are waiting for her on the street. Our hair is still wet, but we’re dressed. At least, we’re dressed in a manner of speaking. I’m wearing sleep pants and a going-out T-shirt because they were the first things I laid my hands on in my closet, and Ben is wearing his own shirt, hanging open, and a pair of my shorts that are so small on him they barely cover his ass.

To say they look slutty would be a gross, gross understatement.

Amy and the kids pile out of the car, along with an older woman with faded auburn hair and a regal air about her.

“This is Jeremiah, Mom,” says Amy.

Ben’s mother-in-law looks me up and down, eyes twinkling, as they skate from me to Ben and then back to Amy, giving her a small, knowing smile.

“How nice to meet you, Jeremiah,” she says. “Ben talks about you all the time.”

They don’t stay for long because it’s late and Amy is keen to get her boys in bed. Before she leaves, she gives Ben a hug, and I see her lips move near his ear. Best I can tell, she says something like, “I love this for you, Ben.”

Luca dances on the spot from excitement as they leave, babbling nonstop about the lengths he and Cam reached to dislodge his tooth.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “I almost forgot. I made something for you, Luca. Let me run home and grab it.”

The vessel I made for Luca has been fired and gilded. I’ve been keeping it on the windowsill in the kitchen. It’s a tiny container with a lid that fits perfectly. There’s a border of intricate carvings of molars and canines all around it, with shiny gold letters spelling LUCA on the top. It’s on the garish, ghoulish side, I admit, but I think Luca will like it.

A bud vase is on the windowsill next to it, filled with cosmos and cornflowers. It’s fine, skilled work—a scalloped lip, a curved bowl, and a long, narrow neck. I’ve never made anything like it before and I’m not sure I’ll be able to again.

I hesitate briefly before picking it up, unsure if the reason I made it is a good one.