Page 67 of Your Only Fan
I press closer to him and feel his boner against mine, rubbing over all our layers. So many layers.
We let go before we give the neighborhood a show, and I try to catch my breath, which is hard when he’s stolen it from me.
“Can I… come in?” he asks and glances at my door.
I look at it, too. That damn six has come off its hinge again and looks like a nine. But who cares anymore?
I gaze into his eyes, and the fire behind them seems to match my own.
“Yes,” I say.
His lips curve up into a big smile. And just like that, the angry, betrayed Ezra is replaced with the man I fell in love with.
Not Ezra Dixon, Porn Star.
But Ezra Anderson. Shy, insecure, and kind Ezra.
I fiddle with my back pocket and get the keys out while he lifts his bags off the porch and brings them inside once I’ve unlocked the door.
It’s dim in the living room and I can barely see my nose, especially when I close the door behind me. The hands on the clock by the kitchen ticktock away giving rhythm to the silence.
And then, he’s onto me. He presses me against the door and claims my lips again. I reciprocate. My tongue wants to dance with him again. I can’t get enough of him, and boy, does it feel good not having that stupid mask over my head and all the lint or the pinching of the zippers.
Ezra leans back, our groins still connected, but I can’t see him. One hand leaves my waist and then the room is filled with light.
“I want to look at you when we make love. Enough darkness,” he says.
His free hand, the one that turned the light switch on, comes up to my face, and he removes my glasses slowly, careful not to poke me in the eye.
He sets them carefully on the kitchen counter and turns back to me. He grips my hips and hoists me up on his groin. My dick reacts to his caveman gesture with a throb.
He turns us around and—just like a caveman—carries me to the bedroom.
