Bad Case of Loving You

“Are you starving?” I asked Matthew. “Do you need to go ahead and eat the curry now, hopefully without spilling it over my car?”

Matthew laughed. “I’m not starving. I was brought a plate of roast beef and mustard sandwiches at four this afternoon.”

He leaned forward in the car and fiddled with the radio, presumably trying to tune it to something other than Radio 3, just like Henry. “Did you have a good weekend?” he asked, sitting back up, having found Radio 1.

“Yeah,” I said. “I sorted my office out yesterday, and Henry ate all my gummi bears. Went to the movies last night, and Henry and I spent this afternoon wandering around the city some more. We start out, head somewhere that sounds exciting, and see what happens. We spent today in Whitechapel, looking at the Jack the Ripper sites. What about you?”

“Study,” Matthew said. “House was blissfully quiet because Angie kept grumping about the noise, so everyone went elsewhere to party.”

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.