by Edie Danford
But after two hours of being in dense crowds and performing the complicated dance involved with getting close to the paintings, all while trying to appear comfortable and enthusiastic, I’d found it difficult to breathe.
I’d had to close my eyes and think of Pete, kolache, and my latest image of an isoptropic turbulence before I could tell Steph that I didn’t think I was up to having lunch with his friends. The concern in his eyes, and his questions about my well-being, suggested that he’d believed me.
After getting in a cab and heading south toward home, I began to feel like an idiot for leaving so abruptly. What had come over me? Why hadn’t I simply given myself time to take some deep breaths and pull myself together?
Why was it so easy to be steady and to follow through with plans in my lab, but not in experiments having to do with my life?
When I get back to Hyde Park, I tell the driver to let me off at Promontory Point. The afternoon is sunny and I crave fresh air and a walk. When my legs begin to feel tired and my skin chilly instead of buzzy, I text Zoe.
Date is done. Up for pizza at your place?
A short amount of time later, she sends back: Gitcher ass ova here. Nows.
I walk briskly to the Love’s house, feeling my anxiety drop a few degrees.
Over pizza with Zoe and her dad, Whitaker, I discuss the plusses and minuses of my date. Whitaker mostly nods and gives me sympathetic glances. Zoe gives me a critique and advice, “Don’t try so hard to be perfect next time. Maybe spread out the anxiety so it won’t suddenly smack you in the face.”
The pizza—and the beer mug Whitaker keeps filling—are way more interesting and satisfying than our discussion.
After dinner, Whitaker and I vote down watching, once again, Zoe’s latest favorite movie, Little Miss Sunshine. I’m fond of it, but, as Whitaker says, “Sometimes family dysfunction isn’t so fun to watch. Too realistic.”
We’re saved from having to decide between a documentary on a man who’d been set up on a murder charge by his cousin and The Force Awakens (Zoe’s choices in the documentary and fantasy genres also feature family dysfunction), when she gets a call from her other dad. She makes some entertaining faces as she listens, and then says, “Hold on.” She looks at me and Whitaker and says, “Crisis-management time. I’ll take this in my room.”
After she scurries off, I settle onto one of the floor cushions Zoe and Whitaker use as furniture. Zoe had explained to me that her other dad took most of the furniture when he and Whit divorced—apparently because it was much more to his taste than Zoe and Whitaker’s—and they hadn’t yet shopped for new stuff. Several months have passed since I first visited this room. Decorating and comfortable seating is not a priority, I suppose.
“Whiskey?” Whitaker holds up a large bottle with a black label and amber liquid inside. “Makes an excellent dessert after pizza and beer.”
I consider the idea. I’m not much of a drinker beyond beer. Still, I’ll be alone in the townhouse tonight, and the idea of going home to all the quiet isn’t appealing.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
Whitaker smiles. “Good answer.”
After pouring a couple of shots, he comes back to the floor-pillow pile and hands me a glass. He taps his glass with mine and says, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
He sits next to me. “Figured you might need one of these after your big date today.” He raises his glass and takes a large swallow.
“Yes. It was rather…stressful. Sorry you had to hear about it in such detail.”
“No worries. You’re a braver man than I am, I gotta say, letting friends like Zoe and Pete set you up.”
Holding my glass to my nose and inhaling the rich scent of the whiskey, I consider his statement. Whitaker and I aren’t very close despite many similarities in our lives. We’re both professors at the university. We live within a few blocks of each other and tend to stick close to our homes. We’re both gay. We both love Zoe.
Shortly after moving in and meeting Whitaker and Zoe, Pete had hinted to me that Whitaker, who is quite handsome in a dark, brooding sort of way, would be “a fine, fine date for a young physics professor who is new to town.”
But Pete had been too late. Meeting attractive men with lots of degrees like Whit and Stephan was never going to turn my focus from him.
I ask Whitaker, “Have you thought about dating again? I mean…I’m sure Zoe has tried to set you up, right?”
He laughs and takes another big gulp of whiskey.
I take a gulp too. My eyes water, but I don’t choke.
“No,” Whitaker says. “She knows I’d be a disaster on a date. I’m glad you came along and took the pressure off both of us.”
I laugh. Take another drink. It’s pleasantly warming. Like concentrated Pete-kisses but without the pleasurable delivery.
I tell Whitaker, “I doubt you’d be as much of a disaster as me. I could write a chapter in one of those first-dates-from-hell books. I gave up trying at Stanford.”
He looks at me for a moment and says, “Well. I get the feeling you might already be in love with someone—and this might make the dating idea a little hard for you.”
I finish the rest of my drink. I like this Jack Daniel’s whiskey. It’s smooth yet rough in an interesting way. My father would approve.
“Yes,” I say. “It is probably completely hopeless. Yet, I have hope.”
Refilling our glasses, Whitaker laughs. “God, I know the feeling, Marek. I know the feeling.”
I don’t drink more when he offers a third drink, but I maybe join in his laughter more than is appropriate during Zoe’s showing of the murder documentary. I earn many eye rolls and, for once, she doesn’t beg me to stay when I stand and say I need to get home.
The very short walk is enjoyable, my thoughts morphing from blurry to slightly clear as I take many deep breaths of the cold air.
The motion-detector light comes on when I step onto the back porch. This is good because getting the key into the lock is challenging. In the mudroom, I miss the hook when I try to hang up my parka. Whatevs. Pete isn’t home to see. I will hang it up in the morning. I take off my sweater and throw it on top of the parka. They can keep each other warm during the night.
Speaking of warm. Pete will be home in the morning. It will be Sunday. We can have a lazy day together. And, although I can’t exactly remember how he’s working his time-off shifts this week, I’m sure I can convince him to take the day off.
Maybe we can spend part of the day in bed. Or the whole day.
My cock twitches as I cross the kitchen to the fridge, delicious images of Pete taking over the deep-thought portion of my brain. I can maybe show Pete my stash of toys. The ones I keep locked in the small cedar chest on my closet shelf.
I lean against the fridge, suddenly needing its SUV-sized support. My mouth is watering. I am thirsty for water, yes. But I’m thirsty for Pete too. I swear I can smell his soap. Fresh. As if he’s recently taken a bath and has walked through the kitchen.
I retrieve the water pitcher from the fridge and pour a glass. I spill a little but don’t break anything. A win. After draining two glasses, I take a deep breath. That scent…
Setting the glass down, I peer into the shadows of the butler’s pantry. Pete’s door is slightly open. Odd. He usually closes it when he leaves the house.
I glance at the wall clock. A little past midnight. Had he come home, after all?
I walk slowly across the room, blinking when I enter the dark space of the pantry.
My heart is thumping rapidly—I’m not exactly sure why—as I push open Pete’s door. My gaze travels swiftly over familiar shapes. Couch. Dresser. Bed.
There’s a Pete-sized lump on the bed.
“Pete?”
The lump sits up. Quickly. Its head crashes into the alcove’s edge. “Fuck!” the Pete-shape hollers.
“Oh shit.” I stumble forward. Trip on the coffee table. Save myself from falling by grabbing the w
ingchair. The wingchair tips over with a crash.
“Marek? What the fuck?”
“Sorry! I didn’t know you were…”
He turns on the bedside lamp. He’s out of bed. He’s naked. Yes. This is the source of the scent. The scent that has been making my mouth water, my cock pulse.
He rubs his head and scowls at me.
I don’t think. I pull him into my arms and press kisses against the spot he’s been rubbing.
He feels so fucking good. Warm and silky and solid and sleek. God, so sexy. “I missed you,” I murmur. I kiss his temple, the corner of his eye, his cheek. My hands find his ass and he makes a sound. A sigh. The most erotic sound I’ve ever heard in my life. He raises his chin and his mouth finds mine.
We catch fire. There’s probably a better way to say it, but that’s what it sounds and feels and tastes like. Flames whooshing in my ears, heat combusting between our flickering tongues, his skin searing my hands. His dick is an ember against my crotch, ready to burn through my new jeans. Which would be great. Because then I won’t have to wear these jeans again, and my own dick would be free to mash against his, skin to skin.
His kisses are taking turns with his moans, some of the moans my name. When he fastens a toothy kiss to my neck, I drop one hand from his delectable ass and begin to fumble with the button of my waistband.
“Wait,” he breathes. “Wait!”
Shit. I wanted to cry when he pulls away. These damn tight jeans and their damn tight buttons. I stop my fumbling when I see the look of panic in his eyes.
“Where were you?” His voice is crackly, raspy, like it has been on fire too.
“Where…” I try to line up my thoughts in a way that makes sense. “I went to the Art Institute.” I brush my knuckles over his pink cheek. “But I’m afraid, as Zoe put it, I wimped out and bailed on things a bit quickly—”
“It’s past midnight!” He waves his hand toward the clock. “I thought you’d be home after lunch. Did you end up going to his place or something—”
“No, I—”
“You smell and taste like booze, Marek. Steph is famous for his parties. Did he try to… Oh God, did you—” He makes a choking-gasping sound, taking a step back and bumping into the bed. He sits down hard.
“No,” I say more firmly. “I didn’t.”
His eyes are wide. Maybe…frightened? The effect is made more intense by his large pupils and the red spots on his cheeks. And the way he’s breathing as if he might not ever catch his breath again.
He’s been worried. He needs me to explain. I make myself talk clearly even though there’s a whiskey fog in my brain. “I didn’t go to a party. We saw the exhibit. We talked. He was nice. But then I began to feel anxious. So I came home, went for a walk, then hung out with Whitaker and Zoe—”
“Oh Jesus.” Pete falls back against the mattress, his head thumping onto the wadded comforter, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. His dick is still hard. And I feel like a horrible person for noticing. When he’s freaking out. Because he thinks I—
In one stride I’m at his side. I flop beside him, taking him in my arms. Stiffness dissolves from his body. He lets me press him close, thank God. “Pete,” I whisper. “You have to believe me. And I know it might be hard because people let you down before. But I would never—”
“I know you wouldn’t.” He puts two fingers on my lips. “And even if you had, it would be none of my fucking business. I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. I was afraid I might have pushed you into a situation that you didn’t want to be in. I was afraid Steph Novak might take advantage.” He drops his hand, blinking and shaking his head as if he’s trying to come all the way awake. “I took a couple trips down memory lane today, and, it’s not a good excuse, but I fell asleep in a really funky mood, and—”
I catch his hand in mine and then I kiss him. No fire. Just feelings. I pour everything I feel for him into his mouth, using the power of all the words I want to say to fuel my tongue, my lips, my teeth.
My cock aches as it strains against my zipper. I groan. A pitiful sound.
Pete’s fingers tangle in my hair. He tugs my head back, looks into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Marek.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I told you not to text me. I told you to have fun. I told you I wouldn’t be home tonight. And then I freaked out when I did come home and you weren’t here.”
“Are you going to keep being sorry like this all night? Because there are other, less boring things we could be doing, you know.”
One side of his mouth scrunches. He’s trying not to smile.
I confess, “Earlier I was dreaming about how we might spend tomorrow in this bed. Maybe we can get a head start on this dream. Maybe I can…fuck you.”
He goes still. I feel as though I can sink into the darkness at the center of his eyes. It isn’t a scary darkness anymore. It’s rich and deep and warm.
“God, Pete,” I whisper. “I want us to fuck. So much. I can’t stop thinking about it. And I’ve been thinking about it so much, for so long, that now…when we do anything, when we kiss and touch, I lose it. I’ve never felt this with anyone else. I don’t want to feel this with anyone else. What I feel for you is perfect; it cannot be duplicated. I want. I need—”
“I know. I want and I need too. It’s, um.” He licks his lips, glances at a spot beyond my shoulder. “It’s been a while for me. But…”
“But what, pusinko?”
He makes a soft, pained sound. “I don’t want you to regret this. There are some things I need to tell you—”
“The only thing I will regret is not being with you the way we both want to be together.” I put my hand over his heart. It’s beating hard, fast. Like mine. “Because there is something here between us—some energy we generate that connects our hearts. I probably sound like one of those awful songs you secretly listen to, but this feels right to me. I don’t see how… What is the way to put it? I don’t see how making love with you could be wrong.”
He doesn’t answer. He cups my face in his hands, his eyes regarding me so intensely. He is making a decision. A decision that seems bigger than the one I’m asking him to make.
“Is it wrong?” I ask. “Is it bad to feel this way about you? I know you’re used to guys who are more…hot. Who talk about things that are actually fun or interesting. Guys who aren’t—what do you call me? Adorkable.”
He smiles and I’m pretty sure there are tears sparkling in his eyes. Something is making them sparkle.
“Adorkable is the best. I love adorkable. I don’t want anything else.”
It isn’t what I expect him to say, but I’m really fucking glad he’s said it. “So, you would be okay being with me?”
“Jesus, Mar. More than okay. I want you so fucking bad, it’s ridiculous. But—”
“No ‘but.’ Let’s do it.”
He coughs out a laugh. “As simple as that?”
“Yes. Why does it need to be complicated?”
“You might feel differently about it when you’re not buzzed.” He rubs the top of my head.
I capture his arm, press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “You make me feel buzzed, even without whiskey.”
“You make me feel buzzed too.”
“Here’s what we will do. I’m going to fuck you. Make you feel buzzed times a million.” He smiles crookedly, ready to tease me about my “professor voice,” but I keep talking. “But first I will come. So I don’t come later at the wrong moment. I mean, I will come now and hopefully later, but mostly I need to make sure that you come when you—”
“I get it.” His fingers flutter down the front of my shirt, undoing buttons. “Take off everything.”
I stand—the shirt is easy to slide off. Pete has taken care of the hard part. I reach for the buttons on my jeans, my eyes on him as he settles back on the bed, pushing aside blankets, arranging pillows.
I lick my lips. I want to make that sleek, graceful body of his
feel amazing. To show him how good this can be between us, to show him he doesn’t need to worry or fear anything about being together in the best nuance of the word.
But I’m nervous, damn it, and my fingers refuse to work. Fucking cannot happen if I can’t remove my fucking pants.
“Let me,” Pete says, rising from his delicious pose on the pillows to rescue me.
“I wanted to—” I gasp as he releases my cock from behind the horrible wall of buttons, zippers, cotton. How has he done this so quickly? “I wanted to take care of this, to watch you. To have you watch me, while I’m watching you? Does that make sense?”
“It does, actually.” He gives me a quick stroke, a zap of energy that makes everything buzz, and says, “Hold on a sec.”
He scrambles off the bed and opens the top drawer of his dresser. I take the opportunity to take off the rest of my clothes. With a smile and a bounce, maybe his best dance move ever, he hands me a tube of lube. “Slick will be good, I’m betting. I’ll let you do the honors.”
I nod. If he touches me, I’ll go too soon. Yes, this is just to take the edge off, but he’s naked, I’m naked, and amazing things are about to happen. I want this night to last forever.
As I pour a stream of lube over my cock, Pete settles against the pillows again, his eyes wide as he watches me, his lips parted.
“Do you want to stay over there?” he asks. His voice has a thick quality I haven’t heard before. A little rough. “Or get up on the bed with me?”
“Better to stay over here,” I say. “Then I won’t be tempted to touch your dick instead of mine.”
He laughs softly. “You can touch me anytime. I release you from all rules. I don’t care if you touch me with your fingers or your tongue or your cock or your jizz. I just…” He swallows loudly. “I just need for it to happen.”
“I agree.” I lick my dry lips again, wishing for water. But I’m not about to run out to the kitchen and get a drink and probably break something and create general havoc. I start up a slow stroke, spreading the lube—it feels nice, smells nice too—over my shaft, using my fingertip to ease down my foreskin. Feels unbelievable. I’m so ready. So happy.
