Watching him from my vantage point is erotic and intimidating at the same time. I feel owned by him in the very best sense of the word—cherished. He continues his thrusting, never once taking his eyes from mine. This must be how he moves his body when he makes love, and I relish the idea of this invasion being directed toward other entries to my body. His pace quickens, and my ability to withstand the force and building saliva in my mouth starts to waiver. While his thrusting remains controlled, the power behind it is insistent and unforgiving. As his breathing becomes more ragged and desperate, I watch him and expectantly wait and hope for the taste of his release. My fear starts to build as my mouth becomes over-full with my gagging saliva. And when I think I’ve finally hit my limit, he comes—finally filling my mouth, his cum mixing with the saliva. I gulp him deeply and desperately, inhaling through my nose and relieving the claustrophobic fullness of my mouth. He releases my hands and my head, bracing himself against the door jamb as he finishes emptying himself, as I taste his uniqueness on my tongue. I grasp the backs of his thighs and pull him further to me as his shudders subside. I peer up at him as I continue to gently suck and lick around the head of penis. His eyes are closed and his breathing heavy as he leans in to the door frame. His face looks exhausted. He slowly opens his eyes and smiles warmly down at me as I finally release his cock from my mouth. He gives a slight chuckle at my mild smirk up at him. And there’s his warm smile again.
Reaching a hand down to me, he pulls me up to my feet and into a tight embrace, burying his face in my neck. He holds me there for what seems a most enjoyable eternity before finally lifting me into his arms and carrying me back to his waiting bed. He climbs in after me and pulls my body up against his, leaving not an ounce of space between us. He falls quickly asleep, and soon after, I drift off, too—satisfied and complete.
Chapter 19
The next evening, I leave work early so I can pack for the lake house and be on the road by five o’clock. It’s a lie… Truth: I leave work early so I can get home in just enough time to play with Rowan’s body in the shower before she has to go to work. Packing, on the other hand, ends up being a last-minute side note that takes about thirty seconds. I end up forgetting underwear but bringing five pairs of socks. Once at the lake house, I’m more productive than I’ve ever been. It’s the very best way to deal with missing Rowan.
But come Saturday evening, when our work is done for the day, I’m distracted and impatient. I want to call her when she gets off work, but it’s nearly an hour away, and I’m more anxious than I care to admit waiting for the time to pass. I’ve been leery of my mom’s suspicion ever since Sara’s birthday, and I have no doubt she notices my odd behavior. But at ten-thirty, I dismiss myself by saying I’m going for a walk—odd behavior or not.
As soon as I’m out of earshot of the cabin, I dial Rowan, waiting in anticipation to hear her voice. And when I do, my stress and anxiety release immediately. I wonder if I have such a strong effect on her, too. I walk for a long time along the shore, ambling along the well-worn paths of shoreline. We talk about nothing at all important, just needing to hear the sound of each other’s voice. She tells me she set off the fire alarm in my apartment when she tried to burn my kitchen down again with a frozen pizza, and I’m in ecstasy just listening to her talk and laughing at the images of her standing on the dining room table with a broom trying to fan the fire alarm. I have tears in my eyes from laughing so hard by the time she finishes her story. I keep strolling on, more content than I’ve been since my shower with her the night before. As we talk on, I confess I’m now on day two of my underwear and will be going commando by the next morning. It’s now her turn to laugh
By the time I can see the cabin again, all of my stress and anxiety are gone, and though I’ll miss her until I see her again, I’m finally happy. I can’t wait until the next night. I make her promise not to cook anything else until I get home. I also promise her I’ll cook her dinner the next night if she can manage not to burn down the kitchen before then. And as I hike across the lawn of the cabin while wrapping up my call with her, a broad smile is set on my face. But when I hit the porch, I see my mom waiting for me on the porch swing and weariness sinks in.
She’s smiling when my eyes meet hers, and I move to join her on the swing, suddenly quite curious of her good mood. Not that my mother is prone to bad moods. She’s an elementary art teacher, after all, and known for being fun and energetic. As I sit, she puts a hand on mine. Then she speaks, leaving no room for comment. “It’s nice to see you smile, dear. I don’t have any idea what is going on with you right now, but if it makes you smile this much, you won’t hear any objection from me.”
At that, she stands and starts to stroll back toward the front door. Once there, she pauses and looks at me once more. “You know your happiness is more important than anything else to your father and me, don’t you?” She then disappears inside, leaving me a bit dumbfounded and confused by her comment.
I stay on the swing for a while longer, thinking about her words. I’m perplexed at her intent. Of course I know my parents want me to be happy. Why did she feel the need to tell me that? Does she think I’ve been unhappy? Or does she think I will be? Is she wrong? Of course not. I will be unhappy. When I leave Rowan for Denver, I will, without doubt, be unhappy. For how long, I have no idea—a week, a month, forever? Does she know I’m dreading my move to Colorado? Does she know why? She’s perceptive, I’ll give her that, but just how perceptive? I know she must be suspicious given my behavior recently and how I’ve acted around Rowan, but what can she really know?
For a fleeting moment, I consider confiding in her, but regardless of her words I find it hard to believe she would be happy to hear about the secret I’ve been keeping for the better part of the school year. I find it hard to believe she wouldn’t find objection with the liberties I’ve been taking with Rowan. Her words are kind, and I get it. She wants me to be happy, but she has no idea what makes me happy. If she did, she wouldn’t be nearly so generous with her well wishes. Of that, I’m certain.
I eventually retreat to bed and fall fast asleep, waking the next morning to Sara’s music playing way too loud and her dancing around the kitchen with Rufus in tow. The dog is barking in excitement, and Sara is doing her best to follow the dance moves to some random hip hop romance movie on the TV… You know, West Side Story for the twenty-first century. She is failing miserably and looks ridiculous, but holding true to Sara form, she could care less.
“Look … look … look! I almost did that move. Did you see that?” She’s practically yelling in her excited flurry. “I should have been a dancer. I could … yeah … I could totally be a rock star at this!” She’s short on breath for her exertions, and I can’t help but laugh. As her older brother, I know I should be irritated with her, but I’m not quite able to get the image out of my mind of her pathetic attempt at, what’s it called—Crunk—with Rufus trying to join in the fun. Her face is scrunched up in her focus as she tries to follow moves she has no hope of ever copying, but she just … doesn’t … care! She pulls off ridiculous better than anyone I know.