Page 8 of The Men of Summer
We should have gone house-hunting ages ago. After all, the royalties from my first album with Brea were saved up to secure a bigger place. This high-end bachelor pad is no longer suitable. It should have been a priority, but I was dragged into promotional gigs.
Dim light filters through the blinds above the couch. Scrunching my nose, I stare at Zayn’s sleeping form. Yearning overtakes my tired body, and my cock takes notice.Ohhh, that’s novel; it’s been so long. I miss the level of privacy that our own bedroom granted us back in the day—or should I say intimacy?
Since rekindling our relationship seven years ago, communication has been easy for us, but broaching how having Jeremy’s affected our sex life is off the table. Truth be told, it mostly messed upmysex drive; Zayn tried to initiate things a few times, but was met with my resistance. I love Zayn completely, but a twisted part of me isn’t comfortable with the idea of fucking like rabbits when Jeremy might interrupt us. With that, my brain freezes, and in turn, my libido deflates. Elbow resting on the island counter, I wince at my irrational thought. After all, Jeremy’s never walked in on us and usually sleeps through the night.
Zayn’s gorgeous face, slight frown, and pouty mouth are an invitation. Heat flares yet again. My skin prickles, and I bite my upper lip. After spending almost two weeks recording in LA, myexcitement has yet to subside, and being reunited with my family heightens the feeling. My mind has been all over the place since I returned a week ago, but right now, it is fixed on Zayn Mansouri. I watch him unabashedly.
How did I get so lucky?
Zayn sure has grown from the introverted sixteen-year-old nerd—who dared to kiss me—to the hot as hell tech guy who tempted me years after I ghosted him. He’s always been much braver than I’ll ever be.
Despite being guarded, twenty-year-old Zayn made his intentions clear, which in turn, made it clear that I am bi. Rejecting my deeply-rooted attraction to him negated my own identity. He’s put up with a lot of my bullshit and always prioritized us, from my first music contract to our unexpected child. Offering to hold down the fort whenever my career tore me away from them. Taking care of Jeremy as if he was his own, which should definitely be made official. Building a life from scratch in another state. This isn’t the life I’d expected for us, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. The lump that forms in my throat is my cue to reassess my statement. I swallow it before it threatens to overwhelm me.
Damn, Zayn, I love you so much. I should make it up to you.
With that in mind, I slide under the covers and inhale his intoxicating scent. One arm under the pillow, I do my best to avoid waking my man when I reposition my fatigued body closer to him. Thanks to his body heat, I am able to relax and eventually doze off… until my dream is interrupted by a deep noise that I try to ignore, to no avail. Zayn’s deafening snores shouldn’t come as a shock; after all, whenever my boyfriend drinks, his cute snores turn devilish.
I slowly turn Zayn’s way. The plan is to push him onto his side in hopes of stopping the annoying sound, but my traitorous body has a mind of its own.
Seriously?
I’m rock-hard. My body is overheated. My mouth is parched. Thankfully, I have a wicked idea to remedy all of the above. First, I extend my arm to grab the glass of water on the side table and quench my thirst.
Then, I stealthily move, inch by inch, until my legs dangle off the edge of the makeshift bed while the rest of me is lodged between Zayn’s parted legs. He must feel my presence or my breath on his skin because he fidgets, but thankfully, he doesn’t wake up.
Why has it just struck me that he isn’t naked? I inwardly scold myself for not paying enough attention. Have I neglected our relationship and made it go sideways? All the more reason to carry on; it’s been ages since I surprised him like this. His snoring fuels my resolve. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs, I tug and free my man’s erection from its confinement. My pulse accelerates. From frustration. From passion. From lust.
A moan escapes his lips when my hand circles his girth. I stroke it lazily, teasingly, and graze his slit. My impatience gets the better of me… Shortly after, my tongue runs along the tip, swirling around it, then worshipping the underside of his cock.
Damn, I’ve missed this.
“Mmm…” My boyfriend’s snoring sounds have been replaced with breathless ones.
Is he awake yet or just dreaming?
In a swift move, I kick the comforter away and look up. Our eyes lock. I see a mix of grogginess, curiosity, and desire.
No doubt enticed by the show, he’s raised his upper body to rest on his squared elbows.
“Why’d you stop?” His whining boosts my ego. A smug grin tugs at my mouth.
I return to the task at hand with renewed purpose. One of my hands curls around his length while the other fondles his heavy balls, and I grind my aching hard-on against the mattress.
“Sooo good…” Zayn’s voice is hoarse. His eyes roll back in his head when my plump lips wrap around his manhood. “Ohhh, fuck…Amour, you haven’t lost your touch.” My pulse trips over itself. It’s been so long since he’s used a French term of endearment. It makes me swoon, and he doesn’t even realize it.
I release him with a pop, smirking. “I hope not.” To prove my point, I take him deeper until he hits the back of my throat. I’m proud of my nearly suppressed gag reflex. His hips thrust into my mouth, and I let him, ignoring my watery eyes. Instead, I concentrate on how quickly he’s losing control if his sharp intakes of air are any indication.
“I’m going to—” Harder. Faster. Messier. His thighs tremble, and he spills into my willing mouth, desperately trying to catch his breath.
I release him, lick my lips, slide up his spent body, and kiss the hell out of him. Then, we lie on our backs, staring at the ceiling with our chests rising and falling.
“I’ve missed you,” I declare after tearing my mouth from his. “This isn’t nearly enough.” My tone is feral. My skin is itching. My longing is unbearable. I avoid eye contact. “I can’t wait for you to recover. I need you. I need this. I needus.” My plea has never been more genuine; it’s been way too long. My hand reaches for his soft cock.
He snatches my wrist, stopping me mid-way. “Non.” His tone is adamant. “Pas comme ça.” He denied me. Why? I don’t get it; he said ‘Not like this…’ WTF? He can’t seriously be holding a grudge for my lack of a sex drive, can he? My heart lurches. Granted, we should have addressed the elephant in the room, but still. No, no, no, strike that… I should have talked to him about it much sooner. I didn’t. Surely, he’s not implying that wehave this heart-to-heart convo now, can he? My mind darkens, and I worry my lower lip. He can’t actually be taking the eye for an eye approach–or rather, a denial for a denial–can he? My body stiffens… in all the wrong ways.
We lock eyes. His impossibly green gaze unsettles me even more. “You don’t want me?” Misplaced hurt colors my voice although I’m the one who kept creating excuses to avoid sex. “I’m sorry. I’ve been such a?—”
Dismissing my apologies, he makes atssknoise. “I do want you,amour. You have no idea how much… Thing is, you’re hard as fuck and deserve your own release. Grab the lube.”
