Page 12 of Bi-Partisan

“Favorite animal?”

“Red pandas and cats. I have two.” He pulls away and looks around the living room. “I’m actually a little surprised neither of them have made themselves known.”

“Two red pandas or two cats?” I ask, not missing a beat.

He laughs, and I can’t help grinning. Okay, I really like making him laugh like that.

“What are your cats’ names?”

“Joseph and Molly,” he says with an adorably fond smile.

“I love when animals have people names,” I say.

“Me, too. I once had a patient named Mortimer, which has been one of my particular favorites.”

“Okay, that’s amazing. Was it a turtle? I’m picturing a turtle.”

“It was, actually.”

“Knew it.” I’m practically beaming now as we fall into a brief silence. I take advantage of it to check in with the annoying little voice in the back of my head, finding that it’s gone quiet. Thank God.

“Okay, even though I could probably end up asking you for fun animal stories all night, I think I’m good now,” I say.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated—”

“I don’t,” I say, cutting him off. “I am absolutely sure. I’m sorry I kind of, well, you know. Sometimes my brain gets stuck on an idea and—”

“I thought I told you to stop apologizing,” he says with just a hint of sternness in his voice—which I definitely don’t feel some sort of way about. “There is nothing wrong with listening to what your body or brain is trying to tell you. Besides, I… get it.” He says it carefully, like he’s trying to be vague. But he didn’t call me out about my vague job description, so I’m not going to either.

“Thank you. But I really am one hundred percent good, I promise,” I murmur, then I tangle my fingers in his hair and angle his head back so I can brush my lips along his jaw and down to his neck.

He hums, seemingly satisfied, then softly moans as I start to suck at a spot where his neck meets his shoulder, determined to leave my own mark. “You are definitely good,” he whispers into my hair.

A shiver runs down my spine at his whispered praise, and I feel his silent chuckle as he catches my response. And honestly? I can’t even be mad at him for it because yeah, that’s very much a thing, apparently. His hands, which have been gently resting on my thighs, now move to my hips, then suddenly I’m on my back on the couch, his body covering mine.

Things start to blur from there. We’re all sloppy kisses and roaming hands. His sweater makes its way to the floor at some point, which I’m pretty confident is his own doing because I’m practically putty beneath him, especially as he starts to kiss his way down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt as he goes. Thank you, Mina, for convincing me to go without an undershirt. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be experiencing the sensory heaven that is Adrian’s lips and the silk of my shirt brushing against my skin—warm and cold, juxtaposed. I stare at the top of his head as he travels south, aware he can probably feel how hard my heart is beating and how shallow my breaths are getting.

He pauses just above the waistband of my jeans and looks up. “This okay?”

It takes me a moment to process that he’s checking in, seeking consent, which is such a massive turn on. I nod enthusiastically, unsure if I can even form words right now. Really, though, how did it take me so long to figure out I’m bi?

His brow furrows slightly, and he props himself on his elbow to look at me more directly. “Can you—I need words. Please.”

I swallow hard and reach down to card my fingers through his hair, giving him the little bit of reassurance it seems like he might need. “Yeah, darlin’,” I say on an exhale, purposely slipping in the endearment this time. “Definitely more than okay. Please.”

His features relax into a small smirk, and he presses a slow kiss below my navel. “Good. Thank you.” His hands are quick as he expertly undoes my jeans and slides them down my hips, pulling my boxers along with them and freeing my aching cock. I must let out a moan because he props himself on his elbow again and smirks at me. Then he slowly wraps a hand around me, strokes slowly as he wets his lips.

It takes everything I have not to buck up into his hand. He’s barely done anything, and I’m already this keyed up. I mean, yeah, it’s been months since I last got laid, but still, you’d think I’ve never had a hand job before. I let my head fall back to the couch. Maybe if I don’t look at him, I can get some semblance of control so I don’t embarrass myself. I hear him hum, feel his lips graze my hip bone and the crease where my thigh and pelvis meet as his hand moves along my length. Then I hear the crinkle of a wrapper, which has me lifting my head again.

I blink through the haze and focus on the foil packet in his hand. Condoms. Fuck. Thank God he clearly still has some blood flow going to his brain because apparently, I’m so far gone with lust that I didn’t even stop to think about that.

“You don’t have a latex allergy, do you?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“No, we’re good. Do you, uh, want me to do that?” I stutter, gesturing unintelligibly.

He smirks. “No, I’ve got it.”

I sigh at the loss of his hand as he tears the wrapper open. I watch as he inspects the condom, pinches the tip, and places it on the head of my cock. Then he smirks at me again, lowers his head, and—dear Lord, I think this man might actually be the death of me because he locks eyes with me before rolling it down with his lips.

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