Page 19 of Second Song

I’m projecting.

It’s me who hasn’t stayed still long enough to let anyone grab hold and keep me in one place. Tonight, I’m in no hurry to get done and get gone. I keep hold of him to squeeze out more of this happy humming, and maybe my touch tank has run down to empty as well. All I know is that I’m standing in a bedroom, soaking up his reactions like a cat might soak up sunbeams, and almost purring.

Then he turns and we’re kissing all over again, and it wasn’t a fluke back at the foot of the stairs this afternoon or in that alley. We fit so well together. His hands are under my T-shirt, pushing it up, and I only break off so he can pull it all the way over my head. I can barely find the patience to wait while he unfastens my shorts. Or at least, that’s what he starts doing before he pauses.

There’s that hesitation again.

His gaze rises, his eyes twin wide and wary pools of honey behind lenses still speckled with sand, and from this close up, that looks a whole lot like real worry.

I kiss it away, slowly at first, close-mouthed, finding each of the moles that dot his shoulders. There’s a heart-shaped one beside his mouth. I kiss that too before he melts again, so I guess that hesitation was him letting me know that going slow works better for him.

I’m good with that. He’s had a high-stress day, hasn’t he, so I kiss him until we’re back to a give-and-take of his small hums and my deeper rumbles, and yeah, tinnitus can fuck off. I prefer this new soundtrack of him exploring my body and that’s what this go-slow allows. I’m his map. His canvas. His fingertips could be brushstrokes, and who knows what images he traces, but Rowan slides his hands over every inch of my shoulders like their span is a big deal to him. My torso and chest too. They’re bulky compared to his slimness, but he must like that contrast in our contours. He hums again, and his fingers on my pecs drum the beating pattern I’d know anywhere after being trapped with the swoosh of my own heartbeats all too often.

He echoes my inhales and exhales next, as if copying my timing matters. We’re in almost perfect sync right down to him mirroring my head tilt to kiss him deeper. He’s only a beat behind all the ways I touch and stroke and grip him. It’s so different from the quick hookups I’ve had when worksites get too lonely that I’m okay with playing this slow game of follow-the-leader.

Okay with it?

I’d keep playing it like this with Rowan until hell freezes over.

Eventually, his hands find my arse and clutch it, which pulls me close against him. He has to feel where I’m aching. He even outlines where I throb, but here’s another beat of waiting until I help out by finishing what Rowan started, getting my fly unfastened. My shorts drop and I leave them behind, my underwear following as I steer him backwards, and when he stumbles next? It’s because I’ve backed him against the bed. He turns away, bending over—to shove a hot chocolate container out of our way, I realise a beat too late, not so I can fuck him while still standing.

Tell that to my cock.

It throbs again against the crack of his arse with nothing but a thin layer of his underwear between us. I hook a thumb underneath the waistband, but another moment of stillness from him means I have to ask another question.

“No?” I tag on another question. “You’ve done this before, right?”

His laugh is a surprise. I’m pretty sure he says fuckwit under his breath before he says a louder, “Of course.” He looks back, and here’s a reminder of that wariness edged in bravery. From anyone else, this might sound boastful. “I’ve done everything. You’re going to do me, right?”

“If that’s what you want.” I know I want to, but I still move slowly, sliding down the last of what he was wearing, along with his socks, so we’re both naked. I crouch there for a moment—his arse really is a beauty, complete with a tattoo as fiery as the sunset out of the window. I stop admiring it to stand, and my cock is back to nudging his arse and fuck me, that skin-to-skin contact feels good. So does sliding my dick between his thighs, and maybe that rub and nudge against his balls does it for him. They draw up, and that’s a green flag to ask, “You’ve got something?”

“Something?”

He sounds bleary. I am too—with want, with the way he keeps his thighs closed, and with the way he pushes back against me like we’re already fucking. My hips stutter. So does my voice. “F-fuck. Fuck.”

I can’t wait to get inside him.

I move back to glove up. “Got a rubber?” I should have slung some into my basket along with that hot chocolate at the Co-Op, only I already had a teasing Matt-shaped shadow, and I hadn’t planned on doing more than delivering Rowan’s glasses to him.

Fucking liar.

I wanted to see him but bottled it at the last moment.

Rowan looks back at me like I’m the opposite of a coward. Then my cock gets his attention. He blinks fast a few times when it bobs as if to say let’s get this party started. That’s where his gaze fixes, and I know I’m a lot, but I’m not sure his swallow means he’s pleased or daunted. He even stutters like I just did. “A condom? N-no. I don’t.”

He wets his lips, and I lurch forward. Not to get my dick into him regardless. It’s his mouth I want more of. Those amazing full lips. This irresistible and almost constant urge to kiss him. My weight shoves him onto the bed, where I cover him again to meet his mouth.

This angle is awkward. He’s still on his front, having to twist to kiss me back, but it’s still so good. That’s how he feels underneath me, lean everywhere that I’m thicker, his arse firm, rounded perfection. Even his ink fits for this about-to-take-flight feeling. I kneel back to grasp each cheek, covering that rising phoenix, and he sucks in a breath. His exhale is a quick gust when I find his hole and rub it.

His phone pinging on a bedside table is an unwelcome interruption.

I don’t reach for it even though I’m tempted to hurl it out of the open window. I couldn’t care less who wants his attention. They can get in the sea or into the sun because he’s all mine, for now, and we’re busy.

I do lean across him to yank open the drawer beneath his handset, and I’ll have to thank the manager of this place for supplying at least something that means I can still make this good.

I click open a lid, pour a stream of glistening slick into one hand, and then squeeze that inky phoenix with the other. “Up on your knees. Legs together.”

He moves so slowly, I wonder if he heard me.

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