Page 103 of Ambiguous
He groans and unbuttons mine.
I grab his waistband and shove his shorts down. If we were rolling around in the sand, this could get gritty, but up on our knees, we manage to avoid the worst of it.
Both of us are leaking precome, and I use that as lube to jack us together.
“Oh, fuck. Bloody fucking hell,” he moans as I stroke him.
“Shh,” I whisper, and take his tongue with my own.
This feels exposed and yet somehow safe. In the dark, in nature, with no one else around.
I’m about to lean down and suck him off when he makes a low noise in the back of his throat and starts coming in my hand, his hot release coating my palm and fingers.
He sags back on his heels, his pants still around his thighs as I finish myself. He watches me with wide eyes. “Hell,” he whispers.
Between how turned on he makes me, the warm spunk in my hands, and the friction, I come quickly, seeing stars and nebulae that aren’t visible to the naked eye.
Then I collapse back on my heels, panting, not totally sure what just happened.
“Come on,” he says, and drags me up by my sticky hand. We both tug our pants up, and I grab my shirt. Then we head into the water, getting our ankles wet and bending to wash off our hands.
“This might be the freest I’ve ever felt in my life,” he says, once we’re both dressed and sort of cleaned off, our hands dripping with salt water.
“Agreed.”
He kisses me lightly. I notice he doesn’t even look around before he does it.
“A lot of the time, I feel like I’m in a cage,” I continue. “But not when I’m with you.”
“Maybe that’s why we’re so good together,” he muses.
“It feels like a dream sometimes.”
“No,” he says. “It’s better than that. It’s real.”
The tide’s risen, so we walk back to his house, away from the water.
I feel safe. I feel free.
I feel cared for.
I feel hopeful.
* * *
Back inside, Jules and I shower together, washing off the sand and salt for real. When we get out, I follow him to his closet wearing a towel—and whistle at the sight.
Imagine a showroom for rock ’n’ roll clothes, but add a few tuxes and lots of jeans. It’s gorgeously lit, with ottomans to sit on and large mirrors.
“Being able to share clothes is a side benefit of having a partner close to your size,” he says.
Partner. I like that word. It feels like a step up from boyfriend.
“Double bonus if he’s sponsored by designers, like you. Too bad I’m not so fashion-forward.”
Jules tilts his head. “Would you ever wear a frock?”
“Me?” I say, trying not to laugh. “I, uh.” I rub my face, standing in his closet with a towel around my hips. “I don’t know. I suppose… maybe? I never really thought about it.”
