Page 14 of Nights Without Night
“Okay,” I say, giving him the go-ahead.
“What we talked about yesterday. I still want to, if you do,” he says. There’s no hesitation in his voice. He just looks at me and I know. I know this is a mistake. Unhealthy for the both of us, but it’s difficult not to gorge when I’ve been starved of so much of him for so long. “Do you?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say like I knew I would from the moment the idea was posed. “We can add sex to the many benefits of being friends with me, which include my lasagne, you tasteless cretin. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about…”
He’s suddenly moving toward me with military purpose. When he reaches me, he takes the mug from my hands, placing it out of reach on the counter.
“Hey, I need that to live!” I protest, but then he’s looking at me and any further words burn to ash.
He takes a step closer. His body presses against mine, his thighs and his crotch and his waist. His hand cups my hip, slips under the shirt to rub at the bone there. His other hand wraps against the back of my neck and he just looks, and looks, and looks at me.
I can’t breathe.
When he finally leans in, I’m desperate for it.
I wish I could say it wasn’t good but, fuck. It’s so, so good. The press of his lips, and his body, and the hand on my nape. It’s slow, torturous. He moves his lips and I follow, tandem tides. When I feel his tongue at the seam, my lips part and the kiss turns deep even as the pace stays the same. He presses closer, deeper, until he’s all around me, everything I know.
I pull away to gasp for breath, to give myself a moment, but Isadoro is on a mission. He bends his knees a moment, putting his hands on the back of my thighs and pushing me onto the counter. Something clatters behind me. I hope it’s not the coffee, but the thought drifts away as Isadoro kisses me again, and again, and again.
This is my worst fear, given pace and shape.
He kisses me like he’s devouring me, like he’ll never get enough, and isn’t that a terrifying thought in its inaccuracy. But, for all his urgency, we kiss for an age, pressed hard against each other until I can’t help but start to grind against him. The pressure feels so good I make a small, startled noise of pleasure into his mouth. For a moment, his hold on me tightens, one hand fisting in my hair, the other pressing against the small of my back until I can barely move against him.
“Fuck, please,” I say, breaking the kiss. The look in Isadoro’s eyes is the pounding of my heart, the race of my blood, the dark desperation inside me.
I groan as Isadoro yanks my sleeping pants and underwear down enough to release my dick. He slows down again then, dragging the open palm of his hand against the side of my cock, the tip, before gripping it. I make another noise, pressing my forehead against the side of his neck.
I recognize this feeling. I thought it was just being a teenager, but maybe it’s Isadoro.
Maybe it’s us.
“You, you…” I say, pulling at his sweatpants. They’re caught on his thick thighs, but his cock is free. I let out a breath at the sight of it.
I don’t have Isadoro’s patience. I lick my hand and then wrap it around him. I start jerking him quick, tight, and he twitches against me, moaning. Fuck, that sound.
There’s nothing in this world I want more than to see him come.
“Wait, wait,” he says, however, pushing my hand away. For a second, I’m worried, thinking that whatever happened with the girl at the bar is reoccurring, but he just steps closer, wrapping his large hand half around both of our dicks as they’re pressed together. He’s tall enough not to make the angle awkward despite the counter, and the feeling of his cock against mine, his hand sliding and pressing us together, sends a shudder through me.
There’s not an ounce of hesitation or upset on his face. Quite the opposite; he seems completely enthralled at the sight of our cocks in his hand as I squirm on the counter.
I run both my hands against his cropped hair, scratching my nails against his scalp. My elbows rest on his wide shoulders, a cradle, as I press my forehead to his temple. He tilts his face toward me. If you’re generous, you could call the touch of our lips a kiss, but it’s more a press of tongue and breath, wet and perfect.
“Iván,” he says, and it does me in. The orgasm shudders through me, loosening the walls and the barriers of me, crumbling me down.
I open my eyes and see him come too. Watch the furrowing of his brow, the flutter of his eyelashes, the soft noise that escapes the parting of his wet lips.
I shouldn’t want anything in this moment, and yet desire still eats away at me, a creature bred to be insatiable by years of neglect.
We stay there for a while, cooling come and sweat and breath. When we untangle, his expression is steady, devoid of regret. He cleans us up perfunctorily with a dish towel before lifting our pants. Reaching over, he grabs my coffee, handing it back to me.
“Well, now it’s cold,” I grumble, but it’s just to cover up how shaken I am.
I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.
**********
The summer before Isadoro was finally deployed had run on borrowed time. I hadn’t applied to college but had gotten a summer job inLa Porterawhile I figured out what to do with my life. After work, I would go to the beach with Isadoro, pretending this was any other summer and that adulthood wasn’t looming in September for both of us.
