Page 51 of The Party Plot

Laurel leaned into him. He was still a little jittery from the shock of the power outage, the sudden explosion of noise. His skin felt tingly and electric, and the brush of Casey’s shoulder against his sent a cascade of sparks traveling down his arm. “I don’t know.”

“We could try to sleep, I guess.”

The sheets were stiff and rough, and smelled like bleach with an underlying odor of mildew. Laurel didn’t really want to fold himself into them, and now that sleep was on the table, he found that the exhaustion of earlier in the day had been replaced by a kind of giddiness. “Hmm,” he said. “That sounds boring. Who needs sleep?” Laurel’s hands found Casey’s chest, mapping him out inch-by-inch. There was something decadent and intoxicating about exploring him this way, unable to see anything, every sensation heightened. He bent his head, dragging his tongue over his skin, finding his collarbone and lavishing kisses across it. Traveling lower, he kissed the dip between his pecs, found one of his nipples and sucked it into his mouth, teasing with his teeth. Casey let out a little yelp, his nails digging into Laurel’s thigh.

“God, do you ever stop?” he gasped.

Laurel smiled, pleasure blooming in his chest at the shakiness in Casey’s voice. “To be honest, I don’t know if I can come again tonight,” he said. Finding his way back up Casey’s body, he propped himself up above him on the bed. The fine outline of his profile was barely visible, and Laurel brushed his nose against Casey’s before leaning in for a slow, lazy kiss. “But I never paid you back for earlier, and I really want you to fuck me again.”

“Well.” He heard Casey swallow, and felt his cock twitch and begin to grow heavy against Laurel’s lower belly. “I mean, I’m not going to say no.”

“Yeah, somehow I didn’t think so.”

Casey ran his hands down Laurel’s body, settling on his ass. His breath was hot against Laurel’s ear, and there was a tinge of wicked amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “But that doesn’t mean you’re in charge.” He dug his fingers into Laurel’s skin, a deep, punishing pressure that sent fiery bursts of pleasure-pain exploding across Laurel’s brain. Then he was rolling them over, pinning Laurel underneath him on the bed.

“So, how would you like to get fucked?” he asked almost conversationally.

Laurel’s face was so hot that he was sure Casey could see it glowing in the dark. He squirmed. “I thought I wasn’t in charge.”

“Ask nicely, and I’ll think about it.”

“I want—” he craned his neck, brushing his lips against Casey’s. “I want whatever you want.”

“Oh yeah?” Casey kissed the sensitive skin behind his ear, then nibbled on Laurel’s lobe, sucking it into his mouth, making his toes clench and his feet shift involuntarily against the bedspread. “Good, because I want to enjoy you.”

Laurel wasn’t really sure who was enjoying who more, just that Casey was everywhere in the dark, his hips pressing him into the mattress, his lips on Laurel’s neck and against his forehead and jaw and eyelids, and his two forefingers were in Laurel’s mouth, pressing down on Laurel’s tongue. He sucked on them dutifully, with no room for embarrassment about the filthy, wet sound it made or the desperate little whimpers escaping from his throat. When Casey took them away, he gasped in protest, but then Casey was kissing him, his tongue relieving the absence where his fingers had been, and his hand was between Laurel’s legs, playing with his ass, opening him up and making him shiver and beg.

He was still tender there, and he couldn’t help but wince as Casey’s finger fully penetrated him, but part of him wanted it, craved the discomfort. Some dark, destructive part of him wanted to let everything else fall away and just be used. That didn’t seem to be on Casey’s agenda, though; he must have noticed Laurel tensing up, because he murmured apologies against his hairline and broke away for a moment, fumbling on the bedside table, and when his fingers returned, they were slick with the lubricant that had come with the condoms, and the initial pain Laurel had felt melted into silky luxuriance. He let himself dissolve into it, lost to Casey’s touch, his mind a smear of heat and light, his heels digging into the bedspread and the muscles in his calves tensing and his dick, somehow, hard and leaking even after everything that had already happened that night. Sparklers were going off behind his eyelids, a groan locked in his throat. Casey kissed his forehead, his chest, his lower belly, before dropping a soft, lingering kiss on the head of his cock. His breath was warm against Laurel’s skin, and he was whispering sugar-sweet, worshipful things between each kiss. Laurel let out a shuddery curse, stroking the side of Casey’s face. He thought he might have meant it earlier, when he said he was in love with him. No one else had ever made him feel this way, this natural and unselfconscious and free.

An almost unbearable pause happened while Casey put on the condom; Laurel was no help, not even sure he remembered how to use his hands. Then he was above him again, and they were face-to-face, and Casey’s hand was cupping his hip, getting the angle just right, and then he was sliding fully into him, as deep as he could go. Laurel’s head fell back, his mouth open, unable to make a sound, unable to do anything but absorb the pleasure of it, lost here in the dark with Casey. It was slow and sweet and inevitable this time, Casey going slow, like he had promised, until time had no meaning and the night dropped off over the horizon and the two of them were all that existed. He found himself wishing he could see Casey’s face as he moved above him, but he settled for running his hands over his features, tracing his expressions. He had been right that he couldn’t finish, but it was alright, locked here in this pocket of heat with Casey moving inside of him, the pleasure dilating and stretching out without end, relishing every slow, aching inch and hearing every soft little gasp he made. Laurel held him after he finally came, feeling the quickness of Casey’s breaths, the trembling of his limbs.

“God,” Casey breathed against his shoulder. “You’re okay?”

“I’m great,” Laurel said, kissing his sweaty forehead. “Don’t worry.”

“So about that cafe in Venice.”

“Oh yeah?” Laurel smiled. His legs were still wrapped around him, and he kind of never wanted to let him go.

“Yeah.” Casey cuddled up into the crook of his neck. Laurel could feel his eyelids flutter, lashes brushing his skin. “When do we go?”

17.

The power was still out the next morning, which meant no hot water, no coffee, and no chance to get Laurel back into the shower for a slow, sleepy repeat of the night before. Casey could survive without the coffee, and even without the morning sex, but pulling yesterday’s still-damp clothes on over his unwashed skin made him feel barely human. In the bathroom, he splashed his face and armpits with cold water, trying to at least be presentable enough for the drive. They would be in the car all day, and Casey was sure Laurel would take back all the sweet things he had said last night if they had to sit around smellingeach other for six-plus hours.

Laurel didn’t seem bothered, though. Once they had stopped for coffee, he was perfectly content, sitting at attention in the front seat like a dog on a road trip, eyes alert and sparkling, watching the road as if every highway sign and fast food franchise was uniquely fascinating. The storm had passed, and the milky-white sky of early morning gave way to a collage of oranges and pinks and blues as the sun rose fully and the cloud cover burned off. It was slow going through central Florida, parts of the road closed off to flooding or accidents, but Casey wasn’t as frustrated by it as he could have been. Laurel made it easier, commenting on the scenery or singing along to the radio or making fun of the commercials and the prayer line stations. It was strangely effortless, talking with him. Being with him in general.

Traffic thinned as they approached the Florida-Georgia line, the landscape growing greener and more lush, the trees on either side of the interstate a blend of live oaks and palms. The highway was wide and flat, and Laurel must have noticed that Casey wasn’t exactly in a rush, because he said, “You can go faster than the speed limit, you know.”

“Yeah.” Casey felt his shoulders tense up. “I’m nervous about getting pulled over. I don’t really trust the police.”

“Why? Does Charles Jefferson Walker have a record?” His voice was teasing, but Casey felt a little prickle of guilt. Which was funny, because for a long time, he’d had himself convinced that he felt guilty about nothing. The world gave and took indiscriminately, and the only way to make sure you survived was to take back.

I don’t want you to do it anymore.

Casey wasn’t sure he wanted to do it anymore, either. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a person who took, without regard for others.

“No,” he said, which was the truth. “But I don’t want to get one.” He didn’t really want to admit it to Laurel, but he had been massively stupid at Melody’s house. Between the cat allergies and the missed calls from Denise and the unwelcome memories of all the times his dad had attempted to detox, he had somehow forgotten to flush Melody’s drugs, stuffing them into his jacket instead, and now they were in the glove box. Getting pulled over could be very, very bad.

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