Page 65 of Maybe
“Everything okay?” he said pointedly, hanging up his top.
“Yep.” I threw him a lazy grin, the slide of my hand in a downwards direction under the duvet unmistakeable. “It is now the show’s started.”
He huffed. “Hope you didn’t buy an expensive ticket.”
Unbuttoning and unzipping his chinos, he stepped out of them before folding them onto a chair. His plain navy boxers outlined his arse and bulge beautifully. His chunky, sensible watch followed, rattling into a dish he kept on top of a chest of drawers, specifically placed there for that purpose. Then he sat in the chair and peeled off his socks.
“I’ve got a season ticket for a seat on the front row,” I answered with a smile. “Worth every penny.”
He balled his socks. “Not exactlyMagic Mike, is it?”
“Better, babe.” His gaze skated over to where I had my hand. “I reckon you could touch my eyebrow and I’d sprout an erection.”
I ducked as he aimed the socks at me. “You’re weird.”
Next, he plugged his phone into a charger; mundane, routine stuff, yet still I didn’t look away. More than sexual arousal had my eyes glued to him. This thing I wanted with Isaac wasn’t going to be a series of opportunistic, crazy mad fucks against any available surface. It wasn’t his style. Since making love to him last night and again this morning, I wasn’t sure it was mine, either. Nothing about his evening routine was designed to draw me in: not him scratching under his arm, laying out his fresh undies for tomorrow, nor retrieving his balled socks and chucking them in the laundry basket. And yet my throat caught with the intimacy of it. Watching every commonplace movement felt like watching him expose a little more of his heart, cementing the rightness between us. And I wanted to be a part of it.
“Don’t turn the light off,” I said as he approached. “I like looking at you. You’re beautiful.”
“I think that should be my line, shouldn’t it?” He climbed into bed, and I reached for him. “I see how people check you out, Ez.”
“What? Like I might nick their wallet if they turn their back?”
“Like you’re way out of my league. And you know it.”
“What are you talking about? There is no league. You’re mine, and I’m yours, Isaac. And watching you undress like no one’s watching, like you’re alone gets me hot as hell. So shut up with the self-deprecating bullshit and kiss me.”
He did, softly. Not thirstily, like on the sofa, but little sips, tasting me, building up to more but taking his time. And why not? We had all night. Every night, if I could just work out how to balance a few minor details. Such as Jonty, his mother, school, and friends, Isaac’s career, our fucked-up shared family history. My obstinacy.
Pulling me towards him, Isaac deepened the kiss. His fingers curled around my neck as one of his solid legs entwined with mine, the rough hairs a delicious coarse scratch. When his other hand came between us, outlining the hammer-hard shape of my damp dick pushing through thin cotton, I wriggled away, seconds from detonating like a dropped can of Guinness.
“There’s condoms and lube in the drawer,” he breathed. “And I want to use them.”
“What?” Make that two cans of Guinness. I gave myself a firm squeeze. “You’re redefining slow here, Isaac.”
Fuck, already Isaac was pushing down his boxers. “A boy can change his mind, can’t he?” His heated gaze bored into mine. “And I’ve locked the door. Jonty’s already asleep. I checked before I joined you. He’s snoring. Listen, on the monitor.”
He’d done little else since leaving the hospital. I guess fighting for breath was hard work.
“If you don’t want to, Ez, then…”
“Fuck no. Of course I want to. Jeez, Isaac, you don’t need to question that.”
“So, tell me how you like it. Though, knowing you, I think I can guess.”
“Yeah.” I gave a shaky laugh. “You’re right. I like to top. But I bottom, too. If it feels right. I’d always bottom for you if that’s what you wanted. What do you prefer?”
Though I posed the question, the answer stared me in the face, from how he tensed, from how his anxious gaze slid away from mine.
“Hey, look at me.” I kissed him, his lips parting without hesitation. So pliant, so soft. I didn’t think I’d ever tire of them. When I pulled away, I cupped his chin. “You’re right—a boy can change his mind. We can just kiss, if you like, hold hands, go to sleep. Or stick to hands and mouths; I’m never averse to a side quest. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“I want…” He sucked in a breath. “I like bottoming. I’d like to try it now. But I haven’t prepped or waxed or… done whatever else I’m supposed to.”
“Fuck all that,” I answered briskly. “I’ll never shame anyone if it gets messy. It’s an arsehole. We’ve all got one.”
“Yeah, but… I’ve only done it a couple of times. It definitely got me off, at least when I relaxed into it. I hated myself afterwards, though. I felt a bit… I don’t know… used.”
A flush of protective big brotherly anger surged through me. Which insecure gay wanker shored up his own fucking bullshit gendered notions of masculinity by bottom-shaming my Isaac?
