by Edie Danford
It would’ve worked great, but then his knee slips.
He lands hard on top of me.
We both grunt, my grunt more like a yelp, his more like a gasp.
“Shit! Fuck. Sorry. Don’t wake up…I mean, don’t get up. I am just trying to—” He flails.
He’s gonna fall off the bed completely if he doesn’t stop with the crazy struggling. I shove my way onto my back and grab him.
He looks down at me, hands planted next to my shoulders, eyes wide.
Oh. I’ve grabbed his ass. It’s warm, hard, round, better than I’d imagined. The thin fabric of his pajama bottoms and my boxers are doing a crap job of providing a barrier between our dicks. He’s hard and so am I.
“Glag,” he breathes.
“Chapter Nineteen,” the narrator says from the speaker on the bureau. “The Hungarian Horntail.”
I snort out a laugh. Can’t freaking help it. And then Marek starts to laugh, his awesome, hawing, always-surprised-sounding laugh. The quaking of our bodies make our dicks—or dare I say, “horntails”—jiggle together.
Before I can catch my breath, say something, anything, Mar bends and captures my mouth with his. The connection has nothing to do with physics or trajectories or carefully calculated angles. It’s ravenous. Like a hungry Hungarian Horntail. And, shit, I respond as if being devoured by a dragon is my most wished-for thing ever.
I open my mouth wide, inviting his diving tongue to go deeper. The walls have burned to ash, and Marek’s flames come rushing in—his delicious sleepy-musky taste, his incredible body heat, his sharp teeth, his flickering tongue.
His elbows shift and his hands clasp my head, holding me still as he continues to lay waste to me with a kiss that goes on and on and on. It’s better than dancing. Better than cake. Better than anything I can think of, except for maybe soaring on the back of a dragon, twisting and turning, holding tight to its sleek, speeding body as it makes its way up to the stars.
Trippy. I haven’t been drunk or stoned in a really long time—maybe Mar’s kisses are powerful enough to inspire flashbacks?
Maybe it’s just his skin. The hot satin under my fingertips is feeding my senses with something ultra-potent, super-strong—
“Pete… Wanted to taste you for so long.”
His lips roam over my cheek, my jaw. I tip my chin, turning my head, offering up the spots where I’m most sensitive. As he fastens his mouth to my neck, he freezes. For a second, maybe two. Then his head comes up fast, the whip of the dragon’s tail, his neck and back arching. “Fuck!” He shudders and bucks. “Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur instinctively, trying to soothe him with my hands, sweeping them down from the jut of his shoulders to the hard contours of his flexing ass.
I’m glad his eyes are squeezed closed. Watching Marek come is amazing, beautiful, maybe a little like seeing a dragon for the first time. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to be coming right now, and it’s also obvious that it’s a much-needed orgasm hitting him with a giant, surprising kapow! So it’s good he doesn’t know I’m observing closely and thinking about him like this.
Coming is a near thing for me too, but now my head is in on the act, and so losing control isn’t going to happen. There was a time in my life when ramifications could go fuck themselves. But lately ramifications are around to stay, the cockblocking douchewads.
“Pete,” he gasps, coming up for air at last.
“It’s okay,” I repeat.
His head bows, his body loosening slightly under my hands. When his eyes open, the dismay I see there makes my chest wrench. Mar is inexperienced—he’s told me with his typical straightforwardness that he’s only been with two guys in the past. And he knows—because I’ve told him—that I’ve had a lot of experience.
Crimson spots glow on his cheeks. Embarrassment is happening big time for him for a bunch of reasons. I don’t want that. We’ve crossed a line and it’s sort of a big deal, but not for the reasons he’s thinking.
“Lie down,” I command, using my time-to-be-practical voice. “You’re heavy.”
“God. Sorry. Sorry.” He tumbles back to the spot he’d vacated a few minutes ago.
The sexy scent of him washes over me, jizz and soap and his bare skin. My mouth waters. If it weren’t for those damn ramifications, I’d climb on top of him, lick my way down his chest, peel back his pants, clean him up with my tongue. Midnight Mar-snack.
Jesus. Talk about veering from the road of righteousness.
Thankfully, he’ll never know the fucked-up nature of my struggle as I sit and gently plant a brief kiss on his red cheek. He reaches for me, but I pull back quickly. “I’ll get something to clean up.”
“Pete—”
I’m already off the bed and halfway to the bath. “One mess at a time,” I say over my shoulder.
Going through the motions of turning on the tap, warming the water, taking a fluffy white washcloth from the tidy stack, relaxes me a bit. My cock is figuring out nothing is gonna happen, the pain of not coming dulling and spreading, making its way up to my heart, where it curls up like a cranky tomcat who’s been shut inside for the night, foiled again.
I head back to the bed. Marek’s sitting on the mattress’s edge. He’s turned off the audio book. We’ll have a hard time figuring out where we’ve left off in the story. Then again, listening to the rest likely won’t happen, at least not together.
Heat, unexpected and totally unwelcome, pricks my eyelids.
“I am sorry,” he says yet again as I approach. “I fucked up in many ways. I know this. And I hope you will—”
I press a finger to his warm, soft lips. A major chunk of my rules had been thrown out the casement windows a couple hours earlier; a brief touch isn’t gonna matter much now. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
I begin mopping up his fine-looking mess. His cockhead had been poking out of his waistband and he’s nailed his abs and pecs with some impressive stuff. “Jizz happens,” I murmur.
He makes a pained noise. He’s breathing hard again. “Did you come?” He places his hand on mine, stilling my scrubbing motion. “Because I want to—”
I interrupt, keeping my voice very steady. “That can’t happen. I fucked up. We need to talk before we do anything else.” He deserves honesty from me. The more personal I let things get between us, the more painful the honesty will have to become.
He doesn’t hear me. Maybe he’s breathing too loud, maybe I’d spoken too low, maybe for the first time he’s totally ignoring my verbal and nonverbal signs. He grabs the washcloth, tosses it to the floor. Then he takes my hand and, in a surprisingly firm grip, tugs. His legs are spread and I stumble between them, my knees pressing tight against the mattress’s side.
“You didn’t fuck up,” he says, looking up at me, his eyes so dark, so serious. “Please let me…let this happen. Between us.” His hands come around to my ass, careful, tentative again, but warm. Hopeful.
“We can’t,” I say, no steadiness left in my voice. I shift my feet, and his hands drop immediately. Polite. Respectful.
I take a couple steps back. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Tension is making it seem as though my shoulders are up around my ears. I ease them down slowly. “We should try to get a little more sleep before the day starts.”
I don’t look at his face, but I see his hands curve tightly over his knees, his knuckles white. “Are you mad?” he whispers. “Because… Because I made you lie down with me? That I—that we kissed?”
I have to take a deep breath before I say, “No. I’m not mad at you. You didn’t make me. I know how that feels, how that looks, and this wasn’t—” I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard enough to make my eyes water. “I’m more sad than mad, I guess. Because of the situation. Which is my fault.” My voice cracks.
My fault. God, what a pain in my ass those words are. They’d come automatically, without thinking, but “fault,” and everything it means or doesn’t mean, has been bumping around
in my brain ever since I’d left Hollywood.
People only say shit like “it’s my fault” when the damage has already been done, right? So what did admitting fault even do for anybody? Did it make the party who hadn’t been at fault feel any better in a deep-down, lasting way? Not in my experience. Was it supposed to alleviate guilt for the party who’d admitted it? Not in my experience.
Actions have to back up words, or they’re meaningless.
I turn away, heading, once again, for the bath at the far end of the room. When I get a safer distance away from Marek, I say, “I’ll feel better—I mean, we can talk about this better—in the morning.” I sound like I’m trying to convince myself more than him, but it’s the best I can manage.
When my hand hits the old glass doorknob on the bath’s door, I make myself tell him, “I’m gonna take a quick shower. You need to go up to bed. Okay?” I’m talking to him like he’s a child. He hates when I do that.
Before I can see more disappointment on his bewildered face, I slip inside the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind me.
After turning the brass lock—it makes a grinding sound loud enough for Marek to hear—I go to the tub and turn on the taps full blast. I sit on the small white-painted wood chair between the tub and sink and watch the water splash against the scuffed enamel.
I feel strangely disconnected. Strange because I’ve started to feel so comfortable in this space over the last six months, like maybe living here and doing this job is finally me doing a good thing. Helping Marek find a groove with his life, finding a groove for myself with a job. But now…
I’m thinking maybe the groove isn’t a groove at all. Maybe it’s a rut.
Hyde Park is galaxies away from Century City, Los Angeles, and Marek could have been raised on a different planet from my former boss and coworkers.
I’d thought differences in space, time, and attitude would make all the difference in my ability to do this job and do it well.
But maybe signing that contract with Marek’s uncle had never been about me needing a basic living wage. Or about me doing an awesome job of “protecting” a twenty-six-year-old nerdy dude from the world and from his questionable family—the family who’d hired live-in help for him because they thought he needed a babysitter.
Maybe it had been about me thinking I can somehow prove to myself and everyone else that I’m not a fuck-up, that I’m a good person.
The look on Marek’s face a few minutes ago had not made me feel like a good person.
And, Jesus, this job shouldn’t be about me and my goddamn issues. It should be about making Marek’s life easy, happy, stress-free.
Maybe it’s time for me to get on that. But, God, first I have to get rid of the ice that’s solidifying around all my major organs.
The tub is full. I stand, turned off the tap, take off my tee and boxers.
Steam curls over the water, but I know it likely won’t warm me. The chill I feel is deep. I don’t want to get wet again; I’d had a long bath earlier in the evening. But I step into the ancient, cast-iron beast and sit, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my legs with shaky arms.
The water sloshes and settles, and I begin to sing softly—one of the old pop ballads my mom used to love. Those tunes—Simply Red, George Michael, Seal, Tears for Fears—had bored the fuck outta me when I was a kid. Now that I’m an ancient twenty-three, I have a love-hate relationship with them. They’re often the only defense against the self-doubt my brain spews at moments like these.
I’ll keep holding on…
Chapter 3
Marek
The scent of pancakes drifting up the stairway is another reminder this won’t be a usual morning. Pancakes are for Sundays. But not every Sunday. Some Sundays we had waffles, or chocolate croissants from the Medici on 57th.
Pete’s avoidance of routine is itself a routine. Something he’d deny, of course. It’s interesting how determined he, a man who obviously loves order, is about appearing random. Interesting and cute.
But yes. “Cute” is another thing he would vehemently deny being, even though cuteness beams out of him like pulses from a high-power laser. He’d make fun of me for describing his vibe in terms of petawatts and picoseconds, but I think about Pete just as much—more, if I were being honest—than my work in the lab. Overlap is going to happen.
I hold tight to the banister on my way down. The floor is polished and my socks are perfectly laundered. Journeying to the kitchen on my ass will not start off the morning well. Also, my hand is shaking a little.
I want to show confidence. Be confident. I have a plan for how to deal with lingering fucked-up feelings from last night, but for now I will be casual. Play things by…ear. Yes.
As I walk down the hall, past the tick-tocking clock, my ears strain to capture other noises. Singing. A morning playlist. News on the radio.
Nothing. Doesn’t seem like a good sign.
But when I enter the kitchen, Pete’s head comes up, and he gives me a normal-sounding “Good morning.” His smile seems normal too. Maybe slightly droopy. He’s been reading the newspaper—it’s spread across one end of the island.
“What’s happening in our city?” I ask my usual question in what sounds, surprisingly, like my usual voice as I round the island. My favorite mug is waiting by the coffee maker, along with my allotted portion of cream. I pour carefully, no sloshing, and turn to face him.
Usually he responds with ranting and outrage about politics and gun violence and stupid celebrities (or celebrities doing stupid things). We rarely have time to dwell on the topics, but I always enjoy hearing Pete’s take on events and sharing my own thoughts. Despite an excess of sneering and eye-rolling over humanity’s hopelessness, it’s obvious he cares deeply about these things. The newspaper subscription is his. As is the choice for news on the radio.
This morning his response is only a shrug and, “Same old, same old.” He gestures to a barstool. “Have a seat.” There’s a single place set in front of one of the island’s stools. Usually when we have pancakes, we eat them together at the table by the window.
“You ate already?” I ask.
“Yep.” He pulls on an oven mitt and then retrieves a platter from the oven. On the platter are two large stacks of golden pancakes.
“Pancakes?”
He shoots me a look. Duh, Marek.
I tighten my hold on my mug. “I mean, you ate pancakes already?”
“I had a smoothie.”
Ah. Smoothies are the normal Friday fare. Extra protein powder for my busy day.
“Sit,” he commands.
I sit and he flips three cakes onto the waiting plate. I stare down at them. Stupidly. Yes, because it’s probably pretty stupid to be sad that Pete isn’t going to be eating pancakes with me. What next? I’ll ask him to draw a smiley face on each cake with the syrup?
He nudges the syrup toward me, likely reading my mind. “Pour while it’s hot.”
I pour. Without my usual enthusiasm. “Why did you make so many?” I ask.
“I made sausage patties too.” He gestures to a covered plate I haven’t noticed. “You can have a panny-sammy for lunch. If you come home.”
“Panny-sammy.” I snort. He likes to surprise me with food offerings that have ridiculous names. I like these surprises because they usually taste delicious.
“You love ’em,” he says, reading my mind again.
I glance at him. His smile is definitely something I love. I smile back.
I dig into the syrupy stack.
“Marek.”
His tone is serious. Not bossy. Not annoyed. Not edged with fun. I gulp down the too-big bite. “Yes?”
“I don’t think we need to have a long, heavy discussion about what happened last night. But I do think we should talk about it. Briefly.”
He says all this very quickly, very evenly. As if he’s practiced. I’m familiar with that particular nuance, because sometimes I practice saying things too.
I wa
tch his small, graceful hand wrap around his coffee mug. Look up to see his perfect white teeth press into his lip.
“Okay,” I agree. I wipe my lips with the linen napkin he’s set next to my plate.
I gaze into his eyes, but he looks away quickly. For a few seconds the only sound is the quiet hiss of the radiators and the loud beating of my heart.
He isn’t angry. He isn’t going to quit working here. If he were leaving, he wouldn’t have made me pancakes, wouldn’t be here keeping me company while I eat. Right?
His blue eyes are rimmed with red, shadowed with purple. Sad.
Oh God. Maybe I’ve read this all wrong. Maybe this is his way of letting me down easy, of saying goodbye. A funny sound erupts from my throat.
“You all right?” he asks.
I nod. Don’t trust myself to speak.
“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “about how we’ve been doing things together, hanging out a lot. And about how it needs to stop.” He glances at me, but again looks away, this time down at his mug. “The personal stuff. You can’t, um…”
“I can’t roll around on top of you and come my brains out?”
He looks like he wants to laugh. He doesn’t. He says, “Yes. That.”
“It was awkward.”
This time when I catch his gaze, he doesn’t look away. “Well. A little bit awkward. But, you know, not freaky or anything considering the sitch. It’s what my friends would call an oops fuck.”
I smile a little, cataloging the term. “Also it was kind of…hot?”
His brows rise. A laugh finally escapes him. “That too.”
I’ve surprised this admission out of him, and it makes me happy. “I’m glad you think so,” I say. “Because I’m hoping you’ll agree to my proposal.”
“Proposal?” More nerves.
I cut another wedge out of my pancakes, but don’t try to raise the full fork to my mouth. Swallowing isn’t going to work until this discussion is over.
