Page 19 of Husband of the Year
Illona’s arm wraps around my waist, her face moves from being smashed into Olan’s stomach to being smashed into mine, and my heart knows, this is what I’m meant for. A new purpose for my life. As I prepare to take on the role of Illona’s stepfather, I contemplate the importance and impact it will have on both of our lives.
Lying in bed, Gonzo snuggles between my legs, ready for sleep. He often vacillates between Illona’s bed and ours, and we’ve grown accustomed to his routine. If he’s not with us, I know I’ll find him cuddling with his favorite small human.
Olan walks into the bedroom, a dark gray towel wrapped just below his waist, the taut muscles on his stomach glistening from the shower. Bathing before bed? There’s a glimmer in his eyes, and I know what he’s contemplating.
“Are you exhausted from your first day back?” he asks.
“A little. Isn’t that why you wanted to go to bed early?” I muster up a fake yawn.
“Not exactly.” Olan drops his towel, and his beautiful cock, already semi-hard, points toward me. The sight of him aroused, his dick stiffening as he stands before me, makes my mouth water. This is exactly why we retired to the bedroom immediately after tucking in Illona.
Sure, I’m worn out. Teaching kindergarten is a little like running a marathon. Not that I’d know anything about organized exercise. Last year, I ran in a relay race as part of kindergarten field day and dropped the baton, losing the race for my class. They still cheered for me because five-year-olds are forgiving like that. As tired as I am, it’s just after eight, and we rarely go to bed until at least nine. Or nine-thirty if I’ve fallen asleep on the couch and Olan lets me sleep a little before stirring me to head upstairs.
He presses a few buttons on his phone, and the speakers come to life, filling the room with thumping bass and strings. When Marvin Gaye’s smooth voice joins the music, a lighthearted grin spreads across my face. I know this one.
“‘I Want You,’ ” I say with a smile.
“Good. I want you, too.”
“No, the song. Marvin Gaye. From the album of the same name. On Tamla, which became Motown.”
“You remember,” Olan says, crawling next to me. “You’re such a good student.” He kisses my cheek. “But it’s a subsidiary label, so it counts.”
“Does it?” My hands grab at his ass. He’s still damp from the shower, and my fingers glide over his skin.
Olan nods. His lips brush against mine, and because he keeps a tube in every room of the house, they’re coated in cherry ChapStick. He takes my lower lip between his teeth. “Oh yeah. It does.”
Sensing what’s about to happen, Gonzo quickly scurries under the bed, seeking refuge.
“Somebody…”
“Wants you,” he says. Olan takes my chin in his hand, locking his gaze with mine as his fingers dance down toward my boxers, palming my hard-on. “Inside me.”
Two years isn’t a very long time. If my math skills were better than a kindergartner’s, I’d double “Seasons of Love’s” five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes and come up with an impressive number. I’m estimating it would be just over a million minutes. And in that time, Olan has become much more comfortable asking for what he wants. There’s way less blushing and shyness around his desires. Time and experience have bred an ease between us, and remarkably, the sex has become even hotter.
This isn’t Olan’s playlist, it’s the entire album. He calls it Marvin’s “sex album” and while I understand he means Mr. Gaye, it has also become my sex album. The bass. The synths. The strings, coating over everything like warm honey. I tilt my head back and he kisses my neck, peppering the skin, nibbling, and licking. I’m not really in the mood for a hickey the first week back from vacation. But fuck, it’s February—time for turtlenecks! Totally worth it, right?
My hand moves between our bodies, reaching for his hard dick, and I slide my fingers over the tip. It’s wet, either from the shower, precum, or both.
“Let’s get these off you,” Olan says, and he tugs at my boxers. With a gentle lift of my hips, they’re off and my cock slaps against my stomach. Olan grips me, and we’re thrusting into each other’s palms as his lips return to my neck, this time hovering near my ear.
Olan straddles me as Marvin Gaye croons softly, the earthy guitar strums with horns and strings creating a symphony of sound as he reaches over and opens the nightstand drawer. I move my hands to his solid pecs, rubbing and holding him up as he applies lube to himself and finally my dick.
“We’re having dinner at Vincent and Kent’s Friday,” I say.
“Mmmh. Nice.”
“Vincent has been itching for us to meet Ruth. Kent’s work wife. She’s a PE teacher.”
“Marvin.” Olan’s finger, slick with lube, covers my mouth.
I chuckle, because yeah, I need to focus on the task at hand. In my hands. Olan’s beautiful chest. My thumbs pilfer some lube from his palm and give his nipples some attention. As I touch them, they perk up beneath my fingertips, causing Olan to release a gentle moan.
The songs on this album aren’t necessarily hits. I don’t recognize most of them, but the entire piece sets the mood—for lovemaking. My hand moves under Olan’s balls and reaches for his hole. The moment my finger enters, Olan lowers himself, his hips rocking slowly, easily taking it all the way to my first knuckle.
“Fuck, Olan.”
“I missed you today.” He leans over and kisses my lips tenderly. “You left me home alone, and all I could think about was…” He reaches back and strokes me. “This.”
