We stopped at some traffic lights, and I spread my hand over Matthew’s thigh. It had been a long time since I’d felt like this.
Matthew was quiet while we ate dinner on the couch and he looked tired. I put my empty plate down on the coffee table and took his out of his hands. “If you just want to go to sleep, that’s okay,” I said.
He slid across the couch into my arms. “Not that tired,” he said. When I kissed him, he tasted of masala and rice and lager. “I do need a shower first, though.”
In the shower, I carefully washed both of his nipple piercings, sliding the bars through the flesh, twisting them gently, cleaning the bars and balls, then sucking the metal and flesh into my mouth.
I was in that space again, the place where everything slid away inside my head. Matthew’s eyes were half-closed when I kissed him again. His breathing was slow and deep; he was there, too. F took drugs, my ex and her muso friends got there through live performance, and I could possibly, if I tried, remember enough functional neuro anatomy to describe it, but not while it was happening.
I knelt down, and the tiles were hard under my knees. I slid the bar though Matthew’s cock backward and forward, rotating it, cleaning around the beads with a wash cloth, and his cock throbbed in my hand. I washed him carefully, the water pouring down my shoulders, running in rivulets down Matthew’s thighs.
He sighed, audible over the sound of the shower, and he leaned back and spread his legs wider. I washed his balls and his ass, then he guided his cock into my mouth. I nearly came at that moment, just from the taste of his skin.
The beads were hard in my mouth, and Matthew didn’t push in any further. I curled my tongue around the bottom bead and rolled it around.
The room was suddenly silent when Matthew turned the shower taps off and I opened my eyes now the water was no longer streaming down my face. He was looking down at me, awe in his eyes. I couldn’t take any more of him into my mouth; the beads were even more in the way than when he had a condom on, banging against my palate, clinking against my teeth as I twisted my head, looking for a better angle. My fingers curled around the base of his cock, steadying it, and Matthew spread his hands across the tiles, fingers splayed.
His ribcage was rising and falling visibly, his breath echoing. I began to suck, sliding the bar up and down with my tongue, and when I peered up at Matthew again, he had his eyes closed and his mouth open. I stroked slowly with my hand, coaxing him on, and I could taste him. He was leaking now, bitter and strong, breathing hard, moaning under his breath…
I was unbearably hard, and it was a blessed relief to touch my own cock with my other hand, not to stroke, just to squeeze the head, then the shaft.
Matthew’s fingers were curled around my skull now, temporal, occipital. His hand moved forward, zygomatic arch, maxilla, mandible, and I gripped his iliac crest with my free hand to steady him.
He was close, I could feel him trembling on the edge of orgasm, then he cried out, this inarticulate sound that made me ache even more, and his cock throbbed, and he began to come.
I swallowed as much as I could. Matthew’s knees buckled, and I steadied him with my hand, then let him slide down the shower wall into my arms, onto the tiled floor.
I just held him for a little while, both of us breathing hard, then I kissed him and he wrapped his arms around my neck.
We couldn’t sit there for long; the heating in the bathroom wasn’t good enough, and the tiles and grouting were just plain uncomfortable, but I let Matthew recover for a while.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “That was amazing.”
I pushed the wet hair off his face and looked at him closely. He looked so vulnerable, the tiredness gone from his eyes now, and something occurred to me.
“That was the first time, wasn’t it?” I murmured against the wet skin of his shoulder. We were cold now; Matthew was almost shivering.
“First time without a condom, yeah,” he said.
I have to admit the smile I hid against his neck was smug.
He slapped my thigh gently and said, “Stop that,” and I could hear the laughter in his voice clearly.
“You’re cold,” I said. “Come and get warm and I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”
He pulled himself to his feet with the hand rail. “I don’t like cocoa,” he said, reaching for a towel.
“Ah, I didn’t say cocoa,” I said, wrapping a bathrobe around myself and watching his eyes widen when he realised there was a second robe hanging behind the door, waiting for him. “I said hot chocolate.”
Chapter Twenty Five
The bathrobe was thick and fluffy and deep red, and I adored it. I sat on the couch, my hair still dripping, pulled my legs up, and sighed contentedly. The gas heater was on, blasting heat into the room, and Andrew was doing arcane things in the kitchen.
There was a shelf of DVDs on the bookcase and it only took a few moments to work out that, unless Andrew was obsessed by cheesy action flicks, the DVDs were all there for Henry. When Andrew put a mug in front of me on the coffee table, I said, “Where’s your porn? I’ve not seen any here.”
“No porn,” Andrew said, sitting beside with his mug. “Porn is incompatible with Henry, who is unbelievably nosy. As are all other vices, such as bondage gear and secret stashes of chocolate.”
“No porn?” I said, shaking my head. “But what do you do?”
I sipped my mug, and looked at Andrew in surprise. It tasted incredible, not all watery and bitter like cocoa.
“There’re cream and marshmallows and melted chocolate in that,” Andrew said smugly. “And I have to rely on my fevered imagination. That, and being so tired that jerking off is the last thing on my mind.”
“Know all about that one,” I said, scooping some of the cream floating on top of the chocolate up with my finger and eating it. “God, this is good.”
Andrew caught hold of my hand, lifted it to his mouth and sucked on my finger, too. “Mmm,” he said. “I agree.” He licked my palm, nipped the tip of my thumb with his teeth, then sucked on the sensitive skin of my wrist.
I groaned, this strange gurgling sound, and he chuckled.
“You’re an evil bastard, aren’t you?” I said.
“Me? Never.” He nipped the skin, making me squirm. His hand slid up my thigh, parting my robe and exposing my rapidly thickening cock.
“Put your mug down,” he said, and his hand slid down my calf and wrapped around my ankle.
As soon my mug was safely on the coffee table, he lifted my foot up and pressed his mouth against the instep of my foot.
I squirmed, and I have to admit it, I giggled. Giggling was so adolescent. “Stop it,” I said, trying to pull my foot away.
“I’m ticklish, you bastard.”
His hands were tight around my ankle, holding my foot still, and he stopped kissing it for long enough to say, “Being ticklish is about being afraid of being touched. Just relax and let me show you.”
I stopped struggling, and he said, “That’s better. Now, close your eyes and just feel what I’m doing; don’t try and think about it.”
I was dubious, and it must have shown on my face, because Andrew said, “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
The hand around my ankle was firm and he rubbed his fingertips in tiny circles. “All right,” I said, and I closed my eyes and just let myself feel what he was doing.
I’d always been ticklish, so it was hard work to stop myself from pulling away, and Andrew’s mouth, even though he was just kissing and licking, felt sharp and discordant. “That’s better,” he murmured, and he was right.
If I didn’t fight him, it felt intense and strangely erotic, especially when he bit gently. “Oh!” I said, and tingles began to run up and down my legs. This was incredibly intimate.