Page 31 of The Naked Cleaner

I want to make him happy. I want him to smile. I want to live here, and look after him. I want us to be naked all the time and just love each other.

I don’t know what I want.

I finally drift off with him snoring in my ear and drooling on my shoulder, and I think that maybe this is good. Maybe this is real. Maybe. Just maybe this is me. Right where I am supposed to be.

Chapter Eleven

Pontus

I don’t quite know where I am when I slowly come around, blinking awkwardly into the light from the window. I never pulled the curtains last night and now it’s like super light everywhere and my left arm is dead and my arse is sore and for a second this wave of shame comes over me like a red-hot blanket.

I try to ignore it, but it’s right there. Me, Pontus Andreassen, is naked in bed with some kind of god-like naked creature in my arms. I must be dreaming. It can’t be real.

But somehow, he is still here, all real and warm and snuffling gently in his sleep. And I don’t quite know how I feel about that. I love that he’s here, that he is curled up in a very large ball of limbs, and that my arms are all around him. My cheek, a little wet with drool, still firmly against his shoulder blade. He’s fast asleep, making little snoring sounds as he breathes, his chest rising and falling against my wrist. The one I can feel that is, because the one that is wedged underneath his chest is tingling like a motherfucker.

Somehow it would have been easier if he had left. Somehow, I could have coped with that, and just got on with work and let my stupid brain forget that I have gone and fallen headfirst into some kind of stupid crush. I didn’t mean to, and I certainly didn’t willingly end up letting him fuck me into the damn mattress last night. Then I went and got all clingy and emotional and plastered myself to him for the rest of the evening, demanding cuddles and kisses and shit.

What the hell was I thinking? Doing?

Not that I am helping myself here, because I’m wriggling my arm free, but am I being sensible and getting up and having a shower and making some coffee and getting my head in gear? Nope. No. The idiot that I am is snuggling in closer to Louis and letting my hand very cheekily grope him, and I kind of do these little sloppy kisses on his shoulder and whisper shit in his ear, like I know what I am fucking doing.

I haven’t got a clue what I am doing, but whatever I have done must be working, because now he is growing a boner in my grip, and he’s smiling in his sleep and trying to turn around, and I am all over him, kissing his skin like an obsessed stalker of some kind.

I don’t get it. I have no idea what I’m trying to achieve here.

But I like it. Fuck, I love it. I love his skin against mine. I love his little whimpers when I shuffle downwards, trailing kisses and licks along the way.

I may not be getting this again. Fuck, I may not be getting anything ever again, and having made a complete fool out of myself last night I may as well make a lasting impression. At least I don’t think I am too bad at blowjobs. I practised that a lot when I was younger, and then it’s my trick of choice whenever I land myself a hook-up. Which isn’t often, and I can’t think of anything worse right now, because I think to myself that the only cock I ever want to suck again is the lovely specimen between my lips. And that kind of spurs me on, alongside the fact that he is moaning up there and tugging at my hair and pushing my head down. He wants it. I want this. Fuck I want it, all the way down my throat.

It’s not like you see in porn. I can’t deep-throat like a pornstar, and I gag and choke and slurp and make little noises, but dudes seem to dig that and Louis is definitely digging this. I think. I hope. Oh fuck, perhaps he is just faking it?

Yeah, performance anxiety right there. I stop and look up at him, half expecting him to laugh in my face. Instead his hand is visibly shaking against my face and he pants out something I can’t quite make out before begging for more.

Oh fuck. And that, just that look in his eyes when he says it almost has me coming there and then, surges of heat rolling over me and my dick hardening to impossible standards, even for me. I’m going to shoot before he comes and that…Fuck…

I try to think sane thoughts, and then he pushes my face down, just gently enough but firm to the point that I whimper, and now I am leaking all over my sheets. Again. Well what’s new? We have kind of smeared half a bottle of lube into this bed already, I may as well just come all over it.

Not that I want to. I want to come all over him. I want to come in his mouth. I want to come. Full stop.

“Pontus… baby… If you don’t... ahhhh… I’m… close.”

I suppose that’s him giving me a gentleman’s warning that he is about to shoot down my throat. Fair do’s, and no, I’m not going to stop. Or pull off and do some lame hand job to finish him off.

“Where’s the lube?” I croak out.

And he responds by pulling his knees up and spreading his legs for me, in an obvious invitation to do whatever I want to the gorgeousness that is his body. Oh fuck. I have to grab my balls and hold on tight, because that, again, almost makes me come. Without anything more than the desperation in his voice and the total, dare I say it, sluttiness of his actions.

I am not calling him a slut. It’s just he’s so free in what he wants and what he needs, and I wish I could be more like that.

I kind of want to smear some lube on myself and just ride him hard and fast until I pass out from the orgasm brewing in my balls.

But I am sore, and it would probably be a bad idea.

Or not.

I lick his balls as he places the bottle of lube in my hand, and oh.

Hello.

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