by Kim Fielding
“Ha—no. Maybe if I did, it’d soften her up a little. Convince her you’re a good influence on me. But can we please not talk about my mom? It kinda kills the mood.”
Elliott’s mood was not killed. He was fairly certain a bomb could drop in the next room—a big kitchen he glimpsed through the doorway—and the desire racing through him wouldn’t be reduced one bit by the explosion. He’d never felt this needy or this . . . heated about anyone.
With a noise surprisingly akin to a growl, Elliott closed the space between them and grasped Simon’s hair, pulling him in for a kiss. And he didn’t stop there, pushing relentlessly as he backed Simon into a wall—easing the stress on Simon’s bad leg—and then pressed his full weight into Simon, finally feeling the whole of that body supporting him.
Since they hadn’t yet taken off their jackets, their mouths remained in contact while their arms ended up in a confusing tangle, with hands tugging at collars and sleeves. When the jackets were in heaps at their feet, they attacked shirt buttons. So many goddamn buttons, each one of them a barrier to skin.
Once the shirts came off, though, they got distracted. Simon’s broad chest bore a coating of black hair almost as luxurious as his beard. A thick line of hair led down his belly and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. Elliott moved his mouth to one of Simon’s erect nipples, and sucked and nibbled gently while threading his fingers through that wonderfully soft pelt.
A choked noise escaping his throat, Simon thunked his head against the wall. His hands held Elliott’s shoulders firmly, not for support and certainly not to push him away, but Elliott still felt deliciously in control. He worked that little nubbin of flesh mercilessly and paused only to lavish attention on its twin.
Simon emitted an entire symphony of moans, whimpers, and expletives, gliding his hands down Elliott’s back and then under Elliott’s waistband. Those wide, hot palms and broad fingers on his ass intensified Elliott’s need to taste Simon’s body; he positioned his mouth on the taut lines of Simon’s neck and softly bit.
“Bed.” Simon’s voice was deeper than ever and as hoarse as if he’d been shouting. He pulled his hands out of Elliott’s pants. “Please?”
Elliott didn’t need to be asked twice. He followed Simon across the living room—stopping twice to kiss—then down a short hall and into a bedroom. With the lights out, he couldn’t see many details, but then he wasn’t especially interested right then in critiquing Simon’s décor. What he wanted, and what he got, was to be maneuvered against the bed, to be pushed back against the mattress, and to have Simon lie full-length on top of him.
Simon lifted himself onto his elbows. “I’m not too heavy, am I?”
“Jesus, Si. You’re not that huge, and I’m not a delicate flower.”
“Yeah, okay.” With a single finger, Simon lightly traced Elliott’s eyebrows and then his lips. “Remember, I’m kinda new to this. I’ve mostly done . . . you know. Gropey stuff. Quick. Not, well, making love.” His voice had dropped to a whisper, and even in the semidark, Elliott could see that Simon’s eyes were big and soft.
Elliott answered back just as quietly. “We can do whatever you want. I’m all yours.”
“What about what you want?”
“I want to make you feel good.”
A tiny noise escaped Simon’s lips, somewhere between a sigh and an almost-sob, and then he collapsed fully onto Elliott and nuzzled at his neck, at his cheek, at that sensitive patch of skin beneath his ear. Apparently it was his turn to explore Elliott’s upper half, which he did thoroughly, using mouth and fingers, until there was nothing left of Elliott but a writhing, arching puddle of want.
“El, can I—”
“Yes! God, yes.”
Simon’s chuckle did wonderful things to Elliott’s body. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Whatever it is, the answer is yes.”
Simon went very still and looked down into Elliott’s face. “That’s a lot of trust.”
“I trust you.”
“Even after what John did?”
Elliott gently tugged Simon’s hair. “You are not John.” He said it lightly, but he meant it. Even as the words left him, he experienced an odd weightlessness—despite the two hundred fifty or so pounds of man on top of him. Although his future contained only uncertainty, this was the first time in years he truly believed that he might have good prospects. That the mess with John hadn’t ruined him after all.
“What do you want to do with me?” he asked, tugging again.
“I want to be in you.”
“I-I’d like that too.”
Simon was clumsy as he rolled off Elliott, but Elliott didn’t judge. His own system was overloading, his nerves far more interested in conveying the sensations of sex than worrying about what Elliott did with his limbs. Or with his lungs, which seemed to be working raggedly. Simon’s house wasn’t especially warm, but Elliott felt as if he might spontaneously combust.
Swearing under his breath, Simon sat on the edge of the mattress and fussed with his knee brace. Elliott took advantage of the opportunity to kneel behind him and play with the wide expanse of back and shoulders—those of a god hefting the world or conquering a minotaur barehanded. While Simon tried to remove the brace, Elliott laid kisses on his nape, on the points of his scapulas, and down the knobs of his spine.
“You were right,” said Simon.
“About what?”
“In the car. When you said touching everywhere was interesting.”
Elliott leaned over his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “True. But we can do better than this.”
“We can.”
Although he’d never been one of those men who could skim off his shoes, jeans, and underwear in a seductive fashion, Elliott didn’t feel self-conscious about it now, not when Simon had to struggle with his leg. Once they were both naked, Elliott stood at the bedside, torn between turning on the light—the better to see Simon—or foregoing that in favor of simply jumping on him. Simon made the decision by grabbing Elliott’s arm and tugging him closer, until Elliott ended up straddling his lap.
They were both hard, and although Elliott hadn’t had the chance for a good look at Simon’s cock, it seemed proportionate to the rest of him. At the moment, however, what was more important was all the glorious skin against skin, Simon’s strong thighs beneath his own, Simon squeezing Elliott’s ass and tracing his mouth wetly over Elliott’s jawline.
“Fuck.” That was Elliott, squirming on Simon’s lap, thrusting forward for the friction against Simon’s belly and then back into the grip on his cheeks. “Jesus fuck.” Because apparently all he had left were blasphemies.
After a few minutes of that—during which their cocks became slick and Elliott skated perilously close to the edge of climax—Simon grunted, held Elliott tight, and in a single powerful move, scooted them around. Now Simon lay flat and full-length along the mattress, and if Elliott couldn’t see well, he could damn well touch and taste.
He started with collarbones, then sternum. Simon tensed a bit when Elliott got to his stomach, but Elliott tried to wordlessly convince him that there was nothing unbeautiful about that softness layered over muscle. Soon Simon relaxed, splaying his legs and allowing his arms to rest at his sides. Elliott tickled the point of his hip, the lovely crease between leg and torso, the furred roundness of his balls.
As Simon gasped, Elliott moved southward. God, he could love Simon for his thighs alone—heavy with muscle and covered with more hair. The thighs of a classical hero.
Simon made a distressed noise when Elliott reached his bad knee, and Elliott froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. It’s just— It’s a big fucking mess. Scars.”
“Do you think I can only lo—only want you if you’re perfect? There is nothing desirable about perfection.”
“Is that some famous saying?”
Elliott laughed and then blew gently along Simon’s leg. “No, just me. It’s true, though.
I want the you I have right here, not some idealized, sanitized version. Scars. An extra pound or two. Complicated family issues.” He set a featherlight kiss on Simon’s knee before scooting back up so they were again face-to-face.
“I’ve seen gay porn,” Simon said. “Maybe a lot of it. None of those guys look like me.”
“Or me either.”
“But you’re—”
“Here with you, now. There’s no other place I’d rather be or any other person I’d rather be with.”
They made out for a time after that, just a lot of kissing and stroking, with gasps and groans from both of them. Simon eventually fumbled a little tube of lubricant out of his bedside table. “I bought this yesterday. After my mom finished cleaning.”
“Extra points for being prepared.”
Simon was slightly hesitant and clumsy with what came next, but his slicked finger felt amazingly good inside Elliott. So much so, in fact, that Elliott made an embarrassingly needy whine and had to silently recite the outcome of the 1878 Congress of Berlin. “Moving along,” he finally said through gritted teeth.
Simon laughed as he tenderly pushed Elliott off and accessed the nightstand again, this time producing a wrapped condom. Elliott reached for it, intending to roll it sensually over Simon’s cock, but Simon moved it out of reach. “I think it’s best if you don’t touch my dick right now. Boom.”
“Boom?”
“Boom.” Simon made an appropriate sound effect to emphasize his point.
After Simon had the rubber on, Elliott was on his back with a pillow under his ass, and Simon was sliding home so slowly Elliott wanted to scream. He grabbed Simon’s ass and tried to urge him in more deeply, but Elliott’s angle was poor and Simon was strong. “This doesn’t hurt your knee?” Elliott asked.
“A little. I’ll be okay.”
“I can move—”
“I want to look at your face.”
And although the room was quite dark, Elliott knew what he meant. There was just enough light for him to make out the white of Simon’s teeth and the glint of his eyes. Enough to remind him that this wasn’t some anonymous trick he’d arranged over a phone app. Wasn’t John, who fucked like a rabbit—fast and without much real attention to Elliott.
“Oh God,” Simon said. It sounded like a prayer.
They moved together, finding a slow, deep rhythm that pleased them both, punctuating thrusts with kisses and fingertip strokes. Elliott’s cock was caught between them, and he couldn’t get at it, but Simon’s abdomen provided enough friction. Added to that was the sensation of being filled, of opening himself to a man who had quickly come to mean a great deal to him.
Simon came first, crying out as his movements became erratic. He didn’t forget about Elliott, however. He squeezed his hand between them, gripped Elliott’s shaft, and continued to thrust until Elliott climaxed too.
“You okay?” Simon asked after Elliott shuddered and went still.
“Fireworks. Earth moved.”
Laughing, Simon leaned in for a kiss.
After a few moments, Simon limped to the bathroom and returned with damp washcloths. After they cleaned up, a slight awkwardness fell between them. If this had been anyone but Simon, Elliott would have quickly gotten dressed and left. Even with John, visits to each other’s home had been fast and furtive. John had rules about that as well—no parking too close, in case someone recognized the car. No coming or going during times when people were out on the streets and might possibly see them. No spending the night.
But now, Simon clasped Elliott’s hand. “Sleep over?”
“You want that?”
“God, yes.”
So they settled into bed together, and it was amazing how quickly they found a mutually agreeable position—on their sides with Simon spooning Elliott from behind, his arm wrapped around Elliott’s middle. Not a position that allowed for squirming, but Elliott didn’t move around much in his sleep, and this was supremely warm and comfortable.
Simon kissed Elliott’s nape and then a shoulder. “Whatever happens? This is so worth it.”
Elliott totally agreed.
Chapter Thirteen
They didn’t awaken to morning-after awkwardness. In fact, they remained happily in bed for a long time, joking and whispering and fooling around as the sunlight bathed them through gaps in the curtains. This lovemaking wasn’t needy and goal-directed like the night before but was playful instead. Still, they stroked each other to completion, gasping their climaxes with lips pressed to the other’s skin.
“I should let you get going with your day.” Elliott splayed across the mattress with his head nestled on Simon’s shoulder.
“I have that PT appointment later. I have time to make you breakfast, though.”
It was tempting, but Elliott had work to catch up on, and some superstitious part of him worried that if he spent too long with Simon, something would go wrong. They’d have a terrible fight. Simon would discover something despicable about him. Simon’s parents would suddenly show up at the door, possibly right as Simon and Elliott were going at it atop the oversized and fairly ugly coffee table.
“Thanks. But I have to go.”
“When can I see you next? Shit. That sounded stalkery and desperate.”
“No, it sounded sweet. Tomorrow?” Also possibly desperate.
Simon squeezed him gently. “Yeah. I’ll make some plans.”
“Remember, we agreed to suspend the dating arms race. We could just hang out. Watch a movie or something.”
Simon considered this. “Tell you what: I’ll get takeout from the Pita Palace and bring it to your place for dinner. If you don’t mind. I like your furniture better.”
“Your parents chose yours?”
“Yeah,” Simon said with a small laugh. “Could you tell? The bedroom’s all mine, though.”
That made Elliott curious to see more of it. He peeled himself away from Simon and the bed and, conscious of Simon’s steady gaze on his naked body, prowled around the room. The furniture was clearly different from that in the living room. A platform bed, probably from Ikea, a plain but serviceable dresser with matching nightstands, sage-green walls and a beige carpet. No bookshelves, but Elliott smiled when he recognized two of his own books beside the bed. The room held little in the way of ornamentation, although there was a formal photo of a younger, unbearded Simon in a police uniform, receiving some kind of certificate.
“Boring, huh?” Simon lay on his back, his head pillowed on crossed arms. He’d kicked the blankets off so Elliott saw the entirety of him. And although his knee was knotted with scars, he was breathtaking.
“You don’t spend a lot of time thinking about decorating. That’s okay.”
“It’s not that. I think . . . I guess I’m afraid if I do much, it’ll magically signal to my parents that I’m gay. This feels safer.”
“Hmm.” Elliott leaned back against the dresser. “I’m gay—”
“I noticed.”
“—and you’ve seen my place. Someone who broke in might be horrified by my book addiction, but I don’t think they’d jump to conclusions about my sexuality.”
“I know. But still.”
What was it like to keep such an essential part of yourself so locked away? It must be exhausting. “Do you get tired of policing yourself?” Elliott asked.
The answer came on a sigh. “Yeah.”
***
They walked to the front door and stood for a minute or two, enjoying an embrace. Elliott couldn’t explain why, but somehow he felt stronger wrapped in those big arms than when he stood alone.
It was a short drive home through the chilly morning, and although blue sky stretched overhead, gray clouds loomed to the west. Sometimes he missed the eternal gloominess of the Pacific Northwest sky, so he was glad to see the potential for an overcast day. Besides, unpleasant weather was always a good excuse to curl up with a book and a big mug of tea. And he’d much rather run when it was cold than scorching hot.
>
Today, though, he decided to take a day off from running. He’d spend a little time with weights instead, then grade papers and have soup and a sandwich for dinner. And he’d think about how lovely his night with Simon had been.
When Elliott pulled into the driveway, however, he saw that the rainbow flag was missing. At first he thought it might have fallen over, but when he got out of the car and went to investigate, the flag was gone, pole and all. Great. He knew that people sometimes stole lawn decorations from his neighborhood; the previous year, one family’s large carved wooden bear was taken from near their front door. Elliott had always assumed the culprits were teenagers. If so, he hoped some kid was enjoying his stolen pride.
While he was outside, Elliott checked the library—and swore. When he’d left the previous day to pick up Simon, the shelves had been crammed full. Now they bore nothing but an old newspaper and a flyer for yard services.
He hoped the teenagers were at least reading the books and not throwing them away.
Of course, he had no problem restocking. The children’s books had arrived the previous morning, so he put those out, together with an assortment of gay history texts and several novels. That cheered him up. Even better, when he went inside and got on the laptop, he didn’t order more books as replacements. After all, it wasn’t as if he was in danger of running out anytime soon. However, he did order a new rainbow flag, this one bigger than the first and with a few purple cartoon hearts emblazoned on the stripes.
Since he was already online, he fielded student emails. This one wanted to take the class for credit/no credit instead of a grade, and that one, who’d already missed about half the work, wanted to withdraw from the course completely. Another one inquired about the possibility of extra credit. God, if they were this bad now, what would they be like when the end of the semester drew closer?
After twenty minutes with his weights and a quick shower—he was sorry to wash away the remains of his night with Simon—Elliott ate a light brunch. He spent some time staring out the living room window. The clouds had arrived, but an occasional person still came by on foot or bicycle. Three of them stopped at his library, each choosing one book and leaving another. He loved watching that. One older lady with a tiny fluffy dog must have spent ten minutes examining the options, taking each volume out and reading the back before making her decision. It was hard to tell from inside the house, but Elliott thought she took a book about the history of gay men and women in New York City.
