Page 13 of Bi-Partisan

Jesus Christ, that was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever witnessed in my life. My head falls back to look at the ceiling with a moan. I don’t think I’m ever going to recover from that. Especially when he proceeds to give me the best blow job I’ve ever had. I’m pretty sure my brain blue screens. Or I float out of my own body into another plane of existence and the only thing tethering me to the room is my hand in his hair. It also lets me feel his head bob along my length, which even as much as I’d love to watch him, I resolutely refuse to because I’m pretty sure I’ll come on the spot if I do. I’m already dangerously close, which I’m sure he knows based on the steady stream of noises spilling from my mouth. Moans, darlin’s, at one point, I think even a “sweetheart” slips out.

I try to keep it together as long as possible, but then he takes me down to the root. I feel the head of my cock hit the back of his throat, and gasp out in warning. “Adrian, I’m—” He hums around me, and it’s all the encouragement I need. My orgasm hits me like a truck, my back arching off the couch as I clutch at every part of him I can reach—his hair, his shoulder. His hands grip my hips hard, holding me to him as he works me through it.

Then he lifts his head, and I finally look at him. God, he looks like absolute sin with his eyes so blown I can hardly see the hazel color and his lips puffy and slick with spit. I drag him up and into a sloppy kiss, moving so fast I nearly butt heads with him. The kiss is more me panting into his mouth than anything else, due to me not fully recovering my breath yet. My chest rises and falls so fast, you’d think I ran a marathon—which I would be embarrassed about if he didn’t seem as out of breath as me. He looks wrecked, like he got almost as much out of that as I did. Just the thought has my cock twitching again with renewed interest. No one I’ve been with has ever gotten so much enjoyment out of giving a blowjob. Sure, I’ve been with girls that liked it, but they never looked this debauched after. Is this a being-with-another-guy thing, or just an Adrian thing?

I’m a little desperate to return the favor despite having no real idea what I’m doing. Based on his reactions, I’m sure I’d have a great time figuring it out. But I’m not all that sure if my limbs will cooperate with the position change that would require. I can still get my hands on him from this position, though. With slightly jittery hands, I reach down between our bodies, first to quickly pull off the condom and tie it off, though what I’m going to do with it now, I have no idea. I can’t just throw it on his floor.

Like he’s able to read my mind, Adrian reaches over the arm of the couch, plucks a tissue off the side table, and hands it to me. All without managing to break our kiss. I mumble a thank you against his lips, then the second my hands are free, they go for the button of his jeans. I’m not nearly as graceful as he was, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps kissing me, almost as though he needs it like he needs air.

When I finally get his jeans undone and wrap my hand around him, he finally breaks the kiss with a low moan.

A small whine escapes me in response, especially as I look down between us—at my fingers wrapped around his cock. The sight of it almost feels like a religious experience. It feels ground shifting, life altering—even more than when he kissed me earlier tonight.

I move slowly at first, adjusting my muscle memory to the slightly different angle. Then I swipe my thumb across the head, earning a sharp inhale, and it gives me the confidence to change my pace.

With another moan, he drops his face to the crook of my neck. “Jamie.”

Jesus Christ, the way he says my name is going to haunt my dreams for at least a month. The sound of his voice in general. I need more of it. “Tell me what you like, darlin’. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Just like that, baby. You’re so good.” His praise trickles down my spine, making me shiver. “I’m not going to take long. I was already so close hearing you make those obscene noises.”

“Adrian.” A gasp escapes me, and my rhythm falters for a second before I regain my focus.

“Almost, just like—yes, Jamie—” His breath hitches. He’s close.

I weave my free hand back into his hair and drag his lips to mine. And that’s what tips him over the edge. His teeth sink into my lower lip as he stifles a cry. Then I feel him spill over my hand, onto my torso. With my lips against his, I work him through the aftershocks, until he shudders from oversensitivity.

After a few moments, when our breath returns to normal, the kiss turns slow. For just a moment, I let myself bask in it. I could probably spend the rest of the night cuddling and softly kissing him. But I know that’s not what happens next here. I don’t know what actually does, other than us cleaning up, but I know it’s not that.

Apparently reading my mind again, he breaks the kiss and reaches for more tissues. He hands a few to me, then sits back to tuck himself back into his jeans. I shimmy my pants back up, then wipe up my chest as best as I can with tissues. It’s not perfect, but I can always clean myself up when I go home, which I assume is what I’m supposed to do right now. Right? I mean, if we were already in bed, a sleepover might be more obviously implied, but we never made it that far.

Do I ask? Would he think I’m desperate if I did?

No, I don’t think so. He was kind and understanding when I admitted this was my first one-night-stand. But even if he did think that, does it matter if I’m never going to see him again?

“Jamie?”

I shake myself from my thoughts to look over at him. “Bathroom?” I blurt.

“Down that hall,” he says, pointing off to the right of the living room.

After disposing of our mess and washing my hands, I return to the living room. Now that I’m not distracted by his hands and lips, I take in the room. My mother has always said you can learn a lot about a person by looking at their home. Mine, for example, is loud like me—filled with color, personal touches, and furniture from thrift stores. But I’m not sure if I can learn anything about Adrian from his. There are almost no personal touches to be seen—no art on the walls, no knick-knacks or picture frames. All the furniture looks like it’s from Ikea. In fact, if it weren’t for the bookshelf full of bright colored and broken-in spines, it would look like an Ikea showroom.

“Everything okay?”

I draw my attention away from the bookcase and look at Adrian. He’s got one leg propped up on the couch with his arms wrapped around his shin, and his chin propped up on his knee as he looks at me with a furrowed brow.

“I don’t know what the protocol is here,” I admit. “Like do you want me to leave, or…?”

“Stay.”

For a brief moment, the speed of his answer has me wondering if maybe I was wrong about never seeing him again. But then he unravels himself, stands, and closes the distance between us.

“I was hoping, since we didn’t even make it to the bedroom, you’d stay for a second round,” he says, his voice low as he hooks his fingers in my belt loops and pulls me flush against him.

And who would I be to say no to that?

Chapter 6

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