Playing Along

by Louisa Keller

  “Jesus, Dom, you’re having a hell of a European adventure,” said Carson letting out a low whistle.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I said.

  Concern began edging into Carson’s voice. “You okay buddy?”

  “Yeah, I’m just…I’m really into Smith. He’s amazing and I’m having all these feelings but I can’t get Harris’s damn voice out of my head. I feel like I’m too needy, too much. And Smith is really cagey about the whole thing…one minute he’s convinced himself that it’s okay to sleep with me more than once, and the next he’s telling me that he can’t do this. I’m getting whiplash, dude.”

  “Hmm,” said Carson thoughtfully. “It sounds like you’re both kind of struggling here.”

  “We are,” I conceded. “But…I think it might be worth it. Just to get a little more time with him, you know?”

  Carson sighed heavily. “I think time with the people you care about is the most important thing in the world. Even if it hurts when you don’t get to be with them anymore.”

  “Oh, Carson, shit…I didn’t mean to bring up—”

  “You didn’t,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to get heavy there. I just…I think it’s okay to be vulnerable, to take a chance even though you know you might get hurt.”

  “You’ll be there? When things inevitably go south?” I asked quietly.

  “You’re my family, Dom. Of course I’ll be there,” Carson said.

  “Then I guess I should take the leap,” I sighed.

  “Hey Dom?” said Carson.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  “Thanks, man,” I said. “That means a lot.”

  I disconnected the call and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I headed back into the room and sat down next to Smith on the bed.

  “Smith,” I said gently, shaking his shoulder. He grunted, rolling away from me and hiding his head beneath the pillow. “Smith,” I tried again.

  “Go ’way,” he mumbled sleepily.

  “You kiss your Parisian fling with that mouth?” I asked, nudging him with my elbow.

  “I’m not a morning person,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow.

  “Then I’ll buy you espresso while we read through the comments on our viral video,” I said, pulling the comforter off of him.

  Smith tossed the pillow aside and looked up at me, a bemused expression on his face.

  “Viral?”

  “Yeah, viral. Get your ass out of bed, we slept through all of our morning panels at the conference, and I for one would like to know what the internet is saying about us before we head over there for the afternoon,” I said.

  “Wait, wait, back up. Who said our video went viral?” Smith asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “My best friend,” I said. “He called to say that our fans are flipping out about how debauched we looked, and the video’s gaining traction like crazy. So, will you come out to get coffee with me? Please?”

  Half an hour later we were sitting in an adorable café, sipping espresso and splitting a plate of crêpes filled with Nutella. Smith had his laptop out and we were scrolling through the comments on YourTube.

  >>analdestroyer69: looks like somebody had a good night last night ;)

  >>ghostboy1: think they gave those hickies to each other???

  >>stayathomemom95: GREAT VIDEO!

  >>notofthisworld1519: thanks boys, this’ll help with my next ons

  >>bigjimbob: where’s the footage of the sex?

  >>sexygrandma25: wear a scarf next time

  >>notabot100: buy REAL prada bags at a 75% discount, link in profile!!!1!!

  >>hunkydory420: which one of you topped?

  >>gayashell77: the sexual tension is OFF THE CHARTS

  >>papayagurl: next time show us how you got those marks on your necks

  >>tealuver8: turn off the camera and go for round two

  “Jesus Christ, our fans are fucking horndogs,” Smith said, shaking his head and smiling.

  “Uh…says the guy who’s made a career out of sluttiness,” I shot back.

  “Point,” said Smith, taking a sip of his espresso.

  “There are pages and pages of these,” I said, scrolling through. “I’ve never had a response like this. God, it’s spilling over onto other social media sites too. My roommates keep texting me links to stuff people put on Twitter and Tumblr and Reddit.”

  “I’ve gotta say, I’m really tempted by that cheap Prada bag,” Smith said with a smirk.

  “Will you buy me one if I let you join me in the shower when we get back to the hostel?” I asked, waggling my eyebrows.

  Smith’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating.

  “Fuck yes I will.”

  “What if notabot100 steals your identity?” I asked, grinning.

  “Worth it,” said Smith.

  “We should probably put the shower off until after we spend some time at the conference,” I said reluctantly.

  “About that,” said Smith. “I’m…not feeling all that inclined to spend the week getting ogled by thirsty-ass fans.”

  “Um, okay?”

  “I’m not even sure the hotel staff will let us back on the property after we stole the honeymoon suite,” he continued.

  “They were pretty pissed,” I agreed.

  “I don’t know about you, but I for one would prefer to make out in front of a bunch of monuments rather than spending the next few days trying not to get kicked off the premises of the hotel again,” said Smith.

  “Are you suggesting we skip the rest of the conference?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Smith said with a crooked grin. “But I think it sounds way more appealing than the alternative.”

  My first instinct was to say no. After all, I had paid a boatload of money to fly halfway around the world, solely because the conference would help my career. The smart thing to do would be to decline his offer, attend the panels I had been looking forward to, and focus on networking. That would be responsible.

  And I was nothing if not responsible.

  But then Carson’s words came floating back to me.

  I think time with the people you care about is the most important thing in the world.

  Chances were that I would never get to see Smith again after this week. And even though it terrified me, even though it went against all of my principles, I realized that I wanted to skive off the conference. I wanted to spend time with Smith, and by some miracle he also wanted to spend time with me.

  I looked up at Smith and found him smiling at me, his expression full of hope.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s ditch this conference.”

  10

  Smith

  I wasn’t a fucking mushy guy.

  I didn’t go on at length about the majesty of a partner’s body, or the way he made my heart sing, or any of that shit.

  No.

  I was a fucker.

  The kind of guy who wanted to touch and be touched. The kind of guy who liked it a little rough, who appreciated a bite on the collarbone or the occasional playful slap on the ass. The kind of guy who didn’t connect emotions to sex.

  Sex, for me, was about getting off, and getting my partner off. It was basically a transaction—I make you come, you make me come, we go our separate ways. Easy as that.

  Let me make this very clear.

  I wasn’t a fucking mushy guy.

  Except for the fact that Dom’s smile made me go weak at the knees.

  Tracing my hands over the lines of his body did more than get me hard—it made my heart clench. It made me marvel at the fact that I was lucky enough to be in bed with him.

  I was entranced whenever he spoke.

  And don’t get me fucking started on how it felt to make him come.

  His every little plea and whimper went straight to my goddamn core, made me shake and smile and pulse with happiness. Because I was pleasing D
om, I was taking him exactly where he needed to be. My own physical pleasure? That was secondary. Tertiary. Maybe even further down my list of priorities.

  Because Dom was all I could see.

  He was everything.

  My world was quaking around me, the foundation crumbling, as I began to freefall.

  I could only hope that he would be there to catch me.

  11

  Dom

  That afternoon we went to the Louvre.

  “I can’t believe you dragged me to a fucking museum,” Smith whined as I pulled him toward a gorgeous winged, headless statue.

  “I’m pretty sure you promised to make out with me in front of famous Parisian monuments,” I pointed out.

  “I meant, like, under the Eiffel Tower. Not here,” he griped.

  “Show some respect,” I said, shoving him playfully. “This is the Victoire de Samothrace, I’ve been dreaming of seeing her in person since I was a kid.”

  “God, what a nerd,” muttered Smith with a grin. “Fine, fine, come here.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and then honest-to-god dipped me like the heroine in a fairytale. The kiss was deep and passionate, the kind of thing that lovers share, and my heart started racing. It felt so good, so real, and I never wanted it to end.

  When Smith finally set me back on my own two feet, he was panting slightly.

  “Is that what you had in mind when you imagined seeing the Victoire de Samothrace for the first time?” he asked.

  “Oh, Smith,” I said fondly, “it was better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

  He reached out to straighten my glasses, and I was struck by how damn domestic it felt. I knew that we weren’t actually a couple, but it was nice to feel like we could be for a few days. I liked playing along with Smith’s whims.

  “Wanna go make out in front of the Venus de Milo?” Smith asked, pulling me from my reverie.

  “Absolutely,” I said with a smile.

  When we finally returned to the hostel that night, Smith stripped me bare and teased me with nothing but his fingers. He brought me to the edge again and again, denying me each time I got close to coming. By the time he finally relented, I was a shaking, sobbing mess.

  His name was the only thing I could gasp out.

  On Thursday we went to Père Lachaise, a sprawling cemetery in the twentieth arrondissement.

  I was entranced by the graves, running my hands over the headstones and mausoleums. It didn’t take long for Smith to distract me.

  “I’m sure the epitaphs are absolutely fascinating,” he said, “but I was wondering if you might pay attention to me for a sec?”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “I’ve been paying attention to you from the moment we met,” I told him. “And unlike these headstones, I have several days left to look at your gorgeous face.”

  “Flatterer,” Smith snarked.

  “Ooh, is that Oscar Wilde?” I asked, darting over to a huge stone sculpture covered in lipstick kisses and little notes.

  “Of course you would manage to stumble across a gay icon,” sighed Smith.

  “What can I say, I have a sixth sense for these things,” I said brightly.

  I made my way around the entire grave, examining the messages people had left for the deceased writer. It warmed my heart to see how much his work had meant to so many people. Then I looked over at Smith and found him staring at me just as intently as I had been staring at the grave.

  A shiver ran through my body, filling me with warmth.

  “Hey Smith?”

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I said.

  “There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” he said warmly.

  We went out with Lola that night.

  It barely took half an hour of sipping neon-colored cocktails before Smith was yanking me in the direction of the bathroom and getting on his knees in a cramped stall. He sucked me off in record time, leaving my body and my mind reeling.

  It felt so right to be there with him, panting in a dirty bar bathroom.

  Lola took one look at us and burst out laughing.

  “Young love,” she said at last, shaking her head. “Any chance you two can keep it in your pants until we get back to the hostel?”

  On Friday we went to Disneyland Paris.

  It wasn’t my top pick for a Parisian destination, given that I could go to any number of amusement parks back in the states, but Smith insisted.

  “You have to go on Space Mountain here. It’s Star Wars-themed, and it’s a completely different track than in the US. Come on dude,” he had whined.

  So, we spent the day spinning in teacups and admiring Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Despite my initial trepidation, I ended up having a blast. There was something magical about walking hand-in-hand down the tiny Disney streets, trading kisses and little jokes. It felt like we were constantly laughing, smiling, engaging with each other on some kind of cosmic level.

  As the sun began to set over the park, Smith pulled me into a kiss, his arms wrapped around me so tightly. I licked into his mouth, unabashedly filthy, and he moaned against me.

  “Should we take this back to our room?” I whispered against his lips.

  He let out a contented sigh.

  “We probably should. I wish we could just stay right here forever,” he sighed.

  “What, in front of a souvenir shop on Main Street?” I asked.

  “Just…together,” he murmured.

  I let the words settle in my chest, centering me. I knew we couldn’t be together forever, that this thing between us—whatever it was—wouldn’t survive past Sunday. But it was nice to know that he was loving it just as much as I was.

  When we got back to our room, Smith rimmed me until I was begging to be fucked.

  He stretched me with painstaking tenderness, before pushing inside of me. I couldn’t help the tears that leaked out as he stroked into me, lighting me up from the inside. He kissed away the tears, soothing me with soft words and gentle caresses.

  We came at the same moment, our eyes locked, and it was so intense, so intimate.

  I lay there for a long while afterwards, his arms holding me against his chest as I matched my breathing to his.

  I’m going to miss this so much, I thought vaguely.

  Saturday was our last full day together.

  I dragged Smith to the Eiffel Tower and made him ride with me all the way to the top. The view was stunning, Paris laid out before us like a tiny model city. The Seine snaked its way between the two banks, cleaving the city roughly in two. I squeezed Smith’s hand in one of mine, using the other to point out the Champs Élysées.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he asked, eyes tracing the panoramic view.

  I thought of his face when he fucked me for the first time, the complex play of expressions as he descended into absolute pleasure. I thought of his confidence when we made that video together, speaking so knowledgeably about a topic I was so passionate about. I thought of each and every inch of his body, under my hands, my mouth.

  I have, I answered him silently.

  But Smith wasn’t looking for that response. He wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a lover. He certainly wasn’t looking for a commitment.

  So, I kept it to myself. He didn’t need to know that I found him more beautiful than the city of Paris, laid out like a snow globe city.

  He didn’t want to know.

  The sex, on our last night together, was like the most incredible sort of marathon.

  I was in a haze the entire time, giving complete control over to Smith. He ran his hands over me, just exploring, cataloguing. When he had touched his fill, he opened me up with his fingers, stretching me on one, two, three, four. Then he laid down on his back and whispered, “Ride me.”

  I climbed atop him, straddling his hips and reaching back to guide him to my entrance. I sank down ever so slowly, drawing it out, savoring every millimeter of stretch.


  He made me do the work, pushing up until he was barely inside me at all, before thrusting back down. The entire time I was fucking myself on him, he was whispering praise.

  “You’re so beautiful, Dom. So elegant. I love the way your body moves. You’re doing so well for me…”

  It was his words, more than his cock, that drew the orgasm out of me.

  Oh god, his words.

  I would’ve given anything for him to keep saying those words, keep telling me how much he cherished me.

  We fell asleep tangled together one last time. It felt like the end of something amazing.

  12

  Smith

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the airport?” I asked.

  It was Sunday morning and Dom had a plane to catch. My own flight wasn’t until the evening, but I couldn’t bear the thought of sending him off on the Metro by himself. If I was being honest with myself (which I wasn’t), I couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye. I was wracking my brain to come up with anything that would prolong our time together.

  “Nah, man, it’s cool,” Dom said, stuffing the last of his toiletries into his backpack and zipping it shut. “Thanks though.”

  “I could get you breakfast before you leave. You know that plane food sucks,” I said.

  Dom shot me a rueful look.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said firmly.

  “Do what?” I asked, feigning innocence.

  “You know, see me off. It’s the kind of thing a boyfriend would do, and you’re not my boyfriend.”

  A little jab of pain went through my chest.

  Huh, I thought. Where did that reaction come from?

  “I don’t have to be your boyfriend to want to make sure you catch your flight on time,” I argued.