by Kuruki (来木)
(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/127882.html)
Mom stands in the doorway with her coat half on. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
We have been over this a dozen times since she and Dad decided to take Jared to dinner and a movie, and maybe ice cream afterward for his birthday. Connor steps out of the kitchen. His long, blond hair is up in one of those butterfly clamp things, showing off his delicious neck. He rolls his eyes at me like he can read my mind. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Mom,” that’s what she wants him to call her even though she is my mother. “Thank you so much for allowing Reid and me this time together. We haven’t been alone since before the holidays.”
That is an exaggeration, but I’m not about to contradict him.
“That’s all right, dear,” she gushes. She shrugs her coat all the way on then touches Connor’s cheek. He smiles at her with one of his few true smiles. She can never say no to him when he smiles. No one can, not even me. But that is a weapon he saves for special occasions.
I watch out the window until the car is out of sight, then head into the kitchen. Connor is separating eggs. I lean down and nibble his neck.
“Hey, cut that out.”
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Why?”
He elbows me in the gut, but not hard. “Look what you made me do.”
The egg carton is open, egg shells outnumbering the ones yet to crack. The two-cup measure is over half full of egg whites and a freezer container holds the yolks, but the small bowl directly in front of Connor has an egg white with a tiny bit of yellow in it. His fingers are covered in yolk. He wrenches out of my grasp and washes his hands at the sink. “There better be more eggs.”
He dries his hands then dumps the yolky white in with the yolks and rinses the bowl.
“How many do you need?”
“One and a half cups.”
“How many is that?”
“About a dozen.” He steps back in front of me and wiggles like he wants more room. But he doesn’t really. I lean in to taste his ear. He elbows me. “None of that.”
“Why?”
“Do you want to get this cake done, or don’t you?”
I step closer to him. “I thought we could enjoy our alone time.”
Living with my parents while I’m in college makes life a little easier, but I would really like to sleep with Connor without someone in the next room. He relaxes against me. Does he know he’s doing it? I run my hands down his sides. He breathes in deeply, then stands up and carries on as if I weren’t even here. I look over his shoulder. “Can I help?”
“No.” He plops the yolk into its container and then pours the white into the measuring cup twice more, which raises the level to just above the one and a half cup line. “Looks like you get a reprieve.”
I kiss him under the ear. He shrugs me off. I can’t help grinning. I know what will come later tonight.
He cleans up the area and puts the yolks in the fridge. That means we are having pound cake soon. Otherwise he’d freeze them. He dumps the egg whites in the KitchenAid bowl and starts filling the dishwasher with the dirties. I grab the bowl handle. “Do you want me to start it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Eggs separate best when they are cold but whip best at room temperature.”
I pull him close. “So we can make out.”
He pushes me away. “No.”
I pout. He scowls, but his eyes are smiling. I pretend not to notice. “I am cut to the quick.”
“As you should be. We’ve got lots to do.”
“What? Can I help?” I bounce on the balls of my feet like a puppy. He rolls his eyes and pretends he doesn’t love me more than anyone on earth.
He turns away to wash an orange then holds it to out me along with the zester. “Wash your hands then make the strips as long as you can.”
I start at the bottom of the orange and go around in a spiral, but much to my dismay the strips break when I am almost at the other end. Connor almost smiles. I am a knight on a white charger and although I could not bring my princess a jeweled branch, I brought him one of blossoms, which is nearly as good. He sets the zest on a cutting board and cuts it into inch-long pieces.
“Hey,” I say, “I thought you wanted them long.”
“I did. Now I want them short.” His tone is brisk, but the look he gives me over his shoulder heats my gut. He let me show off my prowess with a zester. How many boyfriends would think of that? None, but mine.
He really is the best in the world.
But I already knew that.
I peel the orange and eat it. He measures out a cup of cake flour, then puts the flour and the zest into a freezer container which he closes and shakes. I take the container from him and give him an orange-flavored kiss. He licks his lips as I pull away. “Wash your hands.”
“I did.”
“Wash them again. I’m not going to let orange oil ruin my cake.”
I wash under pretend protest. “But you are going to put the zest in.”
He points at the flour filled container. “We are coating them with flour, so the oil won’t touch the egg whites.”
I know this, of course, but I also know that Connor likes to look smart, so when he tells me to throw away the orange pith, I say, “Pits? Don’t oranges have seeds?”
He cuffs me. Gently, because he is all show. “Pith. The white, bitter stuff that will make my cake taste bad.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” He pulls the white sugar canister closer to him and measures out one cup, pours it into a small bowl. He then digs through the silverware drawer. He lifts a tablespoon into the air with a flourish then looks over his shoulder at me with one eyebrow raised. But I’m not going to say anything. I want sex tonight.
He jabs the tablespoon into the sugar and turns. “Get me the sifter.”
I would get him anything. I think Mom keeps it in one of the bottom cupboards, but I can’t find it. Maybe she keeps it in the ones by the ceiling, but if I step on the counter, Connor will blow a gasket. I settle for a mesh colander. It works just as well and faster, only it doesn’t have a trigger. I set my find on the counter. Connor presses the powered sugar canister into my hands. “A cup and a half.”
I grab a bowl big enough to put the colander in and hunt for a half-cup measure. I would use the same knife to smooth the top as Connor did for the white sugar, but he’s already put it in the dishwasher. He’s too efficient for his own good. I sift the sugar twice then lift up the flour container. “This?”
“Yeah.”
I dump the flour into the colander and stir it with a spoon gently so as to not rub too much flour off the zest. “Look! Worms!”
Connor rolls his eyes. He picks out a few pieces of zest and drops them into the empty flour container. I lean against the counter and wrap one foot around his ankle. He says nothing. I keep my eyes on his face. He picks out a few more bits of zest, ignoring me. I blow on his forehead.
“Don’t you dare!” He deftly steps over my foot. But he isn’t mad. Not really.
I pout. He turns away in a huff, so I won’t see his smile. One of these days he’s going to loosen up and I’ll be right here to see it. I set the bowl down and wrap my arms around him. “Now?”
He reaches over and touches the bowl with the eggs in it, which must still be cold because he turns in my arms. He drinks me in. He tastes so good. I can’t get enough of him. I lift him up and he points towards a counter we aren’t using. I wasn’t going to set him by the food, but the reason we get along so well is because I don’t get touchy.
I leave that to Connor.
We have been together for years. He knows exactly how to melt me. Right now he isn’t holding back at all. We aren’t allowed to take all our clothes off—my parents’ house, their rules—but that barely slows us down. The counter is the perfect height for him to rub his hips against mine. My hands slide under his shirt, and then I slip a finger into the back of his waistband. He is wearing my flannel pajamas. They ride low on my hips and he’s a lot skinnier than I am, so when he wears them he has to pull the string tight. Only tonight instead of knotting the ends, he must have just tucked them in because I have no problem getting inside. I run my hands up his back then down, taking his pants with me. I slide a finger between his cheeks as I drag my hands up his perfect skin. He feels so good. He smells so good. He tastes so good and he’s making those whimpery noises that drive me wild.
His hands run though my hair like he wants this kiss to last forever. He is ravishing my mouth, drinking in my very soul. I let him have me, all of me. I want to lay him out and take him right here. He might even let me, but later he’d be mad that I took advantage. He wants to make this cake before we let loose.
I can be patient.
I know what my reward will be.
His kisses heat me up, burn me alive. I am more breathless after a minute of kissing him than an hour of exercise. My heart pounds in my chest. I moan to let him know how much I like this kind of attention from him. He pulls away just a bit. He probably needs more air. I know I do. Between deep breaths, I kiss his neck. I push up his shirt—my shirt. It is long and loose enough to hide the pajamas’ fly, which is closed by a single button. I want to dip my fingers into the flap, but I won’t. I bend down and drop the shirt over my head so I can hold him with both hands as I attack his nipple. He gets louder, so much louder. He pulls on his shirt and when I glance up I meet his eye.
His lips, bright red and puffy from our kisses, are slightly open as he draws in ragged breaths. His cheeks are flushed. His half closed eyes look dark because his pupils are so wide. And I did all that. That makes me even harder. I switch to his other side. He writhes in my arms, panting my name. Life does not get any better than this. I scrape him with my teeth and he arches his back and shrieks. I’m pushing him closer to his edge. Will he allow himself to fall?
He won’t be able to help it.
I torture him exquisitely until he is begging, not with words—it’s too early in the night for that—but with his hands in my hair and his caught breaths and the way he pushes against my mouth and writhes away at the same time. His whimpers get quiet. It’s time to move on to a new part of his beautiful body. I don’t want him to come too soon.
I fall to my knees and delve into his bellybutton. He gasps and writhes. His hands clench in my hair, but his reaction is worth the pain. I lick and suck, pulling the rim of his belly button into my mouth. He makes funny cat-like noises. He is too incoherent to even moan. He can hardly stay upright. I love that I can do this to him.
He is my heat, my heart, my soul. He is all I want, all I need.
A timer beeps. It will go off for a full minute. I need Connor too much to care, but I love him enough to step away. I will never force him to do anything he doesn’t want. His hands loosen then slide to my shoulders as he catches his breath. He is beautifully disheveled. I enjoy the view while I can. He takes a deep breath and sits up straight. Before the timer silences itself, Connor has on his professional face. I step back so he can slide off the counter.
We are both so hard we can barely walk, but we will ignore that. For now. It will make our love so much sweeter when he gives himself to me. I am patient.
He fastens the bowl into place. “Where is the whisk?”
I adjust myself slowly, watching him watch me. He can’t hold still. I lick my lips. His tongue flicks across his own. I have him. He. Is. Mine.
I turn toward the cupboard where Mom keeps her KitchenAid stuff, but Connor clears his throat. I turn. He looks pointedly at the sink. I walk over to wash up, but he steps in my way. I wrap my arms around him and run my hands under the water. He rubs the soap onto my hands and between my fingers. My belly does flips and I moan in his ear.
I can tell by the set of his shoulders and the barely audible tune he is humming and the slight tilt of his head that he is very pleased with himself.
He massages my hands under the flowing water then he dries me up to my elbows. I ache for him. He turns in my arms and gives me a breathy kiss. I respond with my lips, but in no other way. This kiss is his gift to me. It is the promise that he is mine, that we will be together as soon as we are done cooking. Or maybe before.
He pushes me away and if his fingers linger on my chest, I’m sure not going to be the one to mention it.
“The whisk.”
It is exactly where it is supposed to be. I hook it on. “What speed?”
“Slowly.”
I pop the handle forward. The whisk scraps the bowl in a rapid series of clicks. I raise my voice. “When do I add the sugar?”
Connor looks into the bowl then opens a cupboard. He gets the vanilla off the first shelf and adds a tablespoon. After putting the vanilla away, he reaches higher, but he’s too short to do more than touch the third shelf. I step up behind him and push the cream of tartar into his open hand. He looks up at me out of the corner of his eye and I am suddenly so hard that I can’t breathe. The corners of his mouth lift the tiniest bit. A smile. A real smile.
I am probably grinning like a fool. I must be because Connor sighs in mock disgust. He measures out three half teaspoons quickly and efficiently. Gracefully and elegantly as well. His wrists are smooth and white, his hands small and slender. He isn’t feminine though. He is perfect.
“Go ahead.”
I add the sugar one tablespoon at a time. Connor turns the oven on to 325° and checks to make sure the rack is still in the middle of the oven. The recipe says to put the rack on the bottom, but Connor has better luck if he ignores that. He tidies the already clean kitchen. I know he is watching me. After I add the last tablespoon of sugar, I turn and stare at his luscious behind. He crooks his finger at me and my feet barely touch the floor as I’m drawn to him. He hands me a damp towel and waves toward the KitchenAid. “Wash the counter.”
“Why?”
He bites the inside of his lower lip. I obey.
When I turn he is right there. He takes the towel and tosses it in the sink. “Up.”
I hop onto the counter and he turns the mixer speed up. “Tell me when it’s nice and fluffy.”
Then he pops my top jeans button. I don’t breathe in case he changes his mind. I love it when he’s on the offensive.
Slowly he pops my other buttons and spreads my fly. I don’t have briefs on because I was prepared. Prepared to have him on the kitchen table, not to be blown on the counter. It’s too rare to even hope for. His fingers are warm and smooth. He looks at me, touches me, like I am a newly discovered treasure. I am something worth risking life and limb to find. I am important, the best in the world.
He hesitates as if worried that his touch will turn me to dust, but I have never felt more alive, more immortal. I can live forever in his arms.
“Watch the eggs.”
I pull my eyes from him and glance down into the bowl. They are all white now, but they aren’t anywhere near the top of the whisk.
I am surrounded by moist warmth. He has swallowed me. I feel so good that my eyes want to close, but I’m not going to waste a second of memory. I will play it back the next time he is just mad enough that he doesn’t want sex, but not angry enough that he wants me to pound him into the mattress. Not at me though. If he’s mad at me he runs away, which is never good.
He gives me the look that says that if I’m not going to appreciate his efforts, he isn’t going to bother. I moan to show him I like it. I moan louder—no one is home to hear us—when he massages my balls through my jeans. He knows what I like. And I know what he likes. I don’t mess with his hair or touch his head at all. If I do, he will stop. I am allowed to caress his arms, so I do as I struggle to hold still. I can’t move my hips for fear he will pull back, but my whole body wants to writhe. I want to touch him. I want to hold him. I want him to take me deeper. I want to pull him up into a kiss that doesn’t end until I am all the way inside him.
The pressure builds within me and the heat. My skin is sizzling. I am burning up. He stops sucking and gasps with me still in his mouth. I’ve got him hot enough that his nose can’t take in enough air. That makes me hotter. I shout out his name, but end up gasping as he sucks me down. He moans, telling me that he’s enjoying himself. The sound travels into my gut and I grab my hair and curl forward to keep from coming.
He pulls back. “The eggs?”
I glance over. I have to blink several times to clear the blur away. Unfortunately, the eggs look well whipped. I lean back with a sigh. Connor gets up and looks in the bowl then washes his hands and turns off the mixer. He unhooks the whisk and plays with it a bit to see if it will hold its peaks. It won’t.
I will and do. He doesn’t even bother to scowl as he turns the mixer back on and washes his hands again. I just sit here watching him. I am too hot to move, too hot to talk. I want him to continue to touch me, but it is entirely up to him. He dries his hands as he looks me over. I am a piece of meat he’s considering buying. A steak maybe. He’s very particular about his meat. Do I measure up? Please let me measure up.
I want to cry out, to moan in frustration because I need him. I need Connor. I need his highs, his lows, his quirks, his scowls, and his smiles, but right now I need his hands upon me.
Before I can make a sound, I’m back in his mouth. I hiss and squirm. I am at the mercy of his skillful tongue. I have to come before the eggs are ready, but I want this moment to last forever. My heat spikes through the roof. I am on fire. I am a fire, an eternal flame. Connor is the hot coal that sets me off. The air burns in my lungs. My chest tightens, my body tightens, pressure pulls me into myself, and the world into me. I am so close to my edge that I can see it.
Connor pulls away. I am still so hot, but I shiver at the absence of him. He turns off the mixer and messes with the eggs. The little mountains Connor makes in the eggs don’t droop at the top. I am too late. The eggs are done.
He laughs. “You look so miserable. Is it my fault?”
His grin is broad and his face is like the sun. I am harder than before if that were possible. I forgive him though. Who wouldn’t forgive anything for that smile?
He steps back to the sink.
Why?
“Don’t want to get egg on you.” He is back on, around me. He rubs my balls through my jeans with one hand, but with the other he wraps his fingers through mine. I love you, his hands say, his body says. I love you.
My edge is still within sight. I reach for it and cry his name as I come. I gasp huge breaths into my dry throat. My heart continues to beat double time. He licks his lips then gets to his feet. I couldn’t move to save my life. I can barely sit up even with the help of the cupboard behind me. I watch him through half-lidded eyes as he digs out the cake pan and Mom’s biggest bowl. I’ve got to pull myself together. He’s going to need me for the next step. But I don’t want him to think I’ve gotten over being blown too quickly. I rest my head against the cupboards until my heart rate is back to normal.
“Connor, you blow my mind.”
He licks his lips like he doesn’t know he’s doing it and then bites the inside of the lower one. He’s trying to hide a smile. “I blow other things as well.”
I leap off the counter and pull him into my arms. He struggles free. I fall to my knees. “Let me worship you.”
He looks down at me like he’s thinking hard, but I know he’s made up his mind. “Later.”
“Promise?”
“Sift the flour again.”
I sigh like I’m disappointed and button up my jeans. I didn’t expect anymore. We have a cake to make. I wash up without him having to remind me and get a pat on the cheek for my pain. Well, my lower cheek and it is more of a caress. I bounce on my toes like a puppy again and he rolls his eyes like I knew he would. Then I sift and sift some more. Connor has me sprinkle some of the flour-sugar mixture into the bottom of the big bowl then he dumps the egg whites in. They are so stiff that they stay in a mound as he scrapes the bowl with the spatula.
My job is to sift my mixture a quarter cup at a time over his bowl as he folds it in.
I look around the kitchen. “So where?
He glances up at me. “Where what?”
“Well, I think it’s only fair…”
“You’re right.”
“The counter?” I point with my elbow.
He turns to look. “Good altar material?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Worship, remember?”
“Indeed I do.”
He’s not going to fit, laid out on that counter. Maybe this one. “There is always the floor.”
Connor rolls his eyes. A floor is a floor wherever it is. We might as well do it in our own bed.
“The table?”
He gestures with his shoulder because his hands are busy stirring—folding, but that’s really just a funny way of stirring. “Lots of stuff on it.”
“I can take care of that.”
“Your mother just changed the tablecloth.”
“I’ll lay it over the couch. She’ll never know.”
“What if we want to use the couch later?”
Him leaning over the back of the couch; me deep inside him. “We’ll put it back.”
“We will?”
I turn to meet his eye and lift my shoulder sheepishly. “You will.”
“Because you never get it right.”
Which is, of course, the best way to stop being asked to do something. Anyway, watching him pull and tweak the tablecloth is really hot.
I eye him. He glares at me and deliberately folds in the latest bit of sugar-flour mixture. He loves me. I can tell.
I dump the last of my mixture into my makeshift sifter and stir it until it is all in Connor’s bowl. Then as he folds that in I sprinkle on the flour-coated zest. If the zest isn’t coated enough the oil will reach the egg whites and the batter will hiss with the popping of thousands of tiny bubbles. This batter doesn’t seem to be making any noise, but I know Connor wants to hurry through this stage just in case.
He pushes the bowl into my hands and I step around the corner of the counter and tip the bowl over the cake pan. Connor turns the pan between scraping batter into it. I don’t see how anyone could make one of these cakes by themselves. Connor runs the spatula through the batter to get any large bubbles out then he puts the cake in the oven and sets the timer for thirty-five minutes.
Of course that doesn’t mean that we’ll get to go at it for thirty-five minutes. Connor will want to clean the kitchen first. I put the bowl in the sink and rinse it out. Connor elbows me. “Go.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. He rolls his eyes. “Get ready.”
Ah, the table. I step away from the sink. He pulls me back. “Wash.”
I dutifully clean my hands although I’m sure I didn’t get any egg white on them. I’m not about to risk salmonella. It would be me that caught it too because I plan to touch and lick every inch of his body.
He holds up a towel, but instead of handing it to me, he dries me again. This time he pays loving attention to every bit. I can’t decide whether I want to watch his hands on mine or his face. He is clearly enjoying himself.
He glances up and meets my eye then he scowls. He tosses the towel onto the counter and points towards the dining room. “Go.”
I go. The dining room isn’t quite a separate room and it isn’t quite a part of the kitchen. The doorway between them is eight feet wide. I can watch Conner while I work, but I shouldn’t. I want to be done when he is.
The dining room is a little more crowded than it used to be. Dad bought Mom a sideboard or credenza or whatever it is for Christmas. Mom hasn’t had a chance to fill it yet. She wanted one so badly, but now it’s just collecting dust. But it is about five feet long and eighteen inches wide. Perfect altar material. It just needs a bit of dusting and something soft to protect Connor’s skin and, maybe, to be pulled out from the wall about two feet.
I’ll need to move the table for that.
I’m capable.
The table is easy to move. The—whatever it is—is much heavier. If Connor enjoys today, I need to stop teasing Mom about her leaving it empty. Or I have start lifting more weights. I’d never be able to move it across the carpet with something inside it. Connor has left two towels on the counter just inside the kitchen, one damp and one dry. His back is to me and he is pretending that he can’t see what I’m doing. I go back to work before he turns around to keep up the act.
Once my altar is clean and dry, I head back for our room. What does Connor want beneath him today? A sheet? A blanket? Cotton? Flannel? Silky? Fluffy?
On our bed is a stack of twin-sized sheets. Connor is going to let me decide. I look through them, touching each. Color doesn’t matter as much as texture. What would go well with our worship theme? I’m going to keep him on the altar for as long as I can so I need something to keep him from feeling the cold of the wood. A blanket? No. All the blankets are too big. Either they would slip off, get in the way, or if folded to fit, they would be too soft. I want this to feel like an altar. The flannel sheet folded just right? One of our queen-sized top sheets? The twins are only for making love in places other than our bed. Everyone knows we collect twin top sheets, but no one knows why.
I try out different thicknesses of fabric until I find the one I want. If Connor enjoys this, I’m going to cut our old quilt down to fit the top. It really would be perfect. But not now. Connor is probably waiting for me.
I close my eyes and run my hands across the sheets. The blood red flannel or the off white one made from bamboo. The bamboo cloth is silky and we haven’t had a chance to use it yet, but Connor’s pale skin looks so good against rich colors. But the sheet is really for him. I go with the silky one. How well will bamboo take dye? I want one this silky, but midnight blue. The only other color the store had was pea soup green.
The dishwasher is running when I get back, but Connor isn’t in the kitchen. He’s giving me time to get ready, which is really nice considering that he hasn’t come yet. Sometimes he is so demanding. I like demanding. I like patient, too. I just plain like Connor.
The flannel sheet doesn’t want to fold properly. It keeps sticking to itself. But that is the nature of flannel and I am more stubborn than any inanimate object. Once it is in place I cover my altar with the silky sheet.
Connor steps up beside me as I critique my work. He gives me a sidelong glance that asks if I can do this, then why do I keep putting the tablecloth on crooked. I look away so he can’t read the answer on my face. He sighs, “So I’m the sacrifice?”
“No,” I say, falling at his feet. “You are my god.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my face against his chest. He runs his hands up my arms, shoulder, and neck then he lifts my chin. He drinks me in. I give everything, willingly, lovingly, worshipfully. He is all I want, all I need. He is my friend, my partner, my lover. Connor is my everything.
I moan into his mouth. He shimmies in my arms. He wants me to touch his skin. I want to. I want to so much, but will it fit in our game?
Connor pulls away and gasps against my neck. “Worship. Worship all of me.”
I tilt his head up so I know he is watching me and then I take his index finger into my mouth. It is sweet like sugar. His eyes are laughing. Where else did he sweeten himself? I work my way up his arm with gentle licks and sucks. His elbow is sweet on the inside like honey. I take my time getting him clean. He sways on his feet. I turn us, so his back is against the altar. I suck a hickey onto his sensitive skin.
I stop at the edge of his shirt and switch to his other side. This time he sweetened his palm and wrist, but I still give each of his fingers the attention they deserve. When I get to his shirt sleeve, I have to pull it away from his skin. Marshmallow creme? I can’t believe it. Connor is always so fastidious. In all our years together we have never mixed sex and food. At least not like this.
Connor gives me a devious grin. I almost come just looking at it, just knowing it’s for me. But I want to be deep inside him the next time I come and he needs to come first, which I won’t let him do until he’s nearly naked and so hot he can’t breathe. I will just need to be patient.
I turn him around and lick up his back. He even sweetened himself here. I don’t miss an inch. I like sweet stuff, but I like the taste of him more. Tasting him under the sweet is unbelievable. He rubs his backside into my front. I could take him right here, leaning over the altar. Perhaps I will. Later.
When his back is clean, I turn him around, lift him onto the altar, and start licking again just above his waistband. He is so hard that I have to be careful not to touch. I’m saving the best part for last.
He leans back as I go higher. His nipples are sweet, the one nearest me with melted chocolate. I suck and pull and nibble until he screams, and then I move up to his collarbone as he gasps for breath. He really is the most beautiful person in the world. And he is mine.
I tug his shirt sleeve off his arm and give his shoulder some attention. The inside of his arm still has some marshmallow creme on it. I get every drop. I kiss up his neck and devour his mouth. His hands clench in my hair and then release over and over. He is close to coming, but I’m not ready for him yet. I pull his sleeve off his arm and then slide it over his head. This breaks the spirit of my parents’ rule, but even if someone came back now Connor would run into the bathroom rather than put this sticky shirt back on.
I kiss and lick his shoulder then his side before moving to his neglected nipple. It tastes like strawberry jelly. Connor knows me so well. I kiss and nip and suck until he’s all whimpery and writhing. Maybe I should just end his suffering. I run my fingers across the skin just above his waistband. He gasps. I drag my fingers back and his hand captures mine.
The timer beeps.
I don’t want to leave him here. He slaps my arm. “Hurry.”
I sigh and step away from the only place I want to be. The cake isn’t even done. The top is much higher and golden brown but the cracks are still moist. I put it back in and reset the timer for five minutes.
Connor is where I left him. Exactly where I left him except one arm is across his eyes and his feet are on the altar now, so his knees are a little bent and the clip is out of his hair. I’ve only got five minutes. Once I pull down his pants, I’m not going to stop until we’ve both come even if the cake burns. I could take five minutes on his chest, but that much attention will make him come.
His legs. Did he sweeten them?
I stop by his head and bend down for a kiss. He moves his arm and returns my attention with enthusiasm. And with chocolate. Connor doesn’t even like chocolate, but he pushes a half melted piece into my mouth with his tongue. He really does love me. I move to his cheek and ear, so I have a chance to swallow then I capture his mouth again, taking all the taste away. That is the least I can do.
How much time do I have left? I should have brought the timer with me. I pull away and walk around to the end of the altar then I pick up his foot. I lick the sweet from his ankle and the back of his knee. He has some on his thigh, but I’m getting that from the top. His other leg is striped with chocolate syrup. I love his man. He is willing to get dirty for me.
His eyes watch me as he pants and moans. This makes me so hot. I am hotter than an oven on clean cycle. I walk around and lean over his belly. I can’t have much time left. I did reset it, didn’t I? Connor will be so angry if I burn his cake. I wrench myself away. Connor moans. I hate to leave him even for a second. I hurry into the kitchen. The timer reads zero minutes. Why would I have cleared it if I didn’t reset it? I blink rapidly to get everything into focus as I reach for the timer.
It starts beeping. I almost drop it. It must have said zero minutes, some odd seconds.
I open the oven. The cake is still golden brown but now the cracks are dry. I find another potholder and take the pan out of the oven. Connor has a space ready for the cake to hang as it cools. I arrange the pan upside down over an old corn syrup bottle. The center of the cake pan fits perfectly inside.
The oven clicks. I better turn it off. Connor is waiting for me. How much has he cooled down? Enough that I can finish worshiping him before he comes? I can hope.
I trail my fingers up his chest and kiss his lips. They curl under mine before he opens up to me. His eyes are closed and he shivers. We can’t have that.
I run my hands down his chest and deepen my kiss, warming him from the inside out. His pants turn to gasps and his shivers to writhing. I move down his chest, getting the sweet stuff I missed the first time. His flush of arousal spreads from his cheeks to his neck. When his ears turn pink, I run my finger under his waistband. He responds with the moan I was hoping for.
I tug on the waistband, exposing the white skin of Connor’s hip. And more strawberry jelly. I lick clean as much of him as I can reach, and then I expose his other side. He is so hard that the pajamas get caught. I free him without touching his skin. Then I clean his other hip. He has coated himself, but I’m going to make him wait before I suck him down.
“Reid, you—” he starts to say, but I suck on the crease between his torso and his leg. He can’t think enough to speak when I do this. It’s my secret weapon.
I tug the pajamas all the way off. To hell with my parents’ rule. Dad promised to call before they head home. He doesn’t want to catch us at this as much as we don’t want to be caught. As much as Connor doesn’t want to be caught. I think getting almost caught adds a lot of spice.
I lick up Connor’s chocolatey thigh, then lean across the altar to get at the other one. He scoots closer to the end. I move around so his legs rest on my shoulders and suck hickeys up his inner thighs. I don’t stop until I’m breathing on his balls. His breath hitches as he moans my name.
“Oh, my beautiful god,” I say, although normally Connor doesn’t like conversations during sex. He thinks being able to form complete sentences proves that at least one of us isn’t trying hard enough. “I, your most humble servant, wish to worship you.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Connor asks between gasps.
“This isn’t enough.”
“What would be?”
“This.”
I lunge forward and suck him in. He makes all sorts of incoherent noises, some of which might be my name. I take my time cleaning him from tip to base. Maple syrup. Then I massage each ball with my tongue and lips. One is blueberry, I’m pretty sure, but I can’t tell with the other. The few inches just behind them are clear of sweet, but Connor has a sweetness of his own.
I pull back scant inches and turn him over. This procedure used to take more than a minute with a bit of confusion about what limbs went where, but I’ve perfected it over the years. He is on his belly, still centered in the eighteen inches of the altar, before he can finish gasping my name. Yay me.
I start again where I left off then skip to above his tunnel. I would really love to delve into him with my tongue, but Connor thinks that’s gross and it’s not worth fighting over. He’s my god. I will obey.
I lick his cheeks clean with long, cat-like strokes. He whimpers and moans. I don’t know how much longer I can last.
“Oh. God. Reid,” he manages before he loses his ability to talk. I know what he wants. He wants me in him. I want to be there too, but not yet. Once he comes the first time, he’s so much more sensitive. He’s also more aggressive and needy and demanding. He’s less likely to lay there and moan and more likely to dig his fingers into whatever is closest at hand, thrust his body onto mine, and beg or order me to do his bidding.
I turn him back over and reach into my pocket for the lube that I’ve had warming since the others first started getting ready to leave. My fingers get covered when I open it. Connor sits up and licks the drips from my finger tips. That is so hot. Doubly so as Connor doesn’t like the taste.
“I will grant you this petition, my devoted, but only if you get on with it!”
“Your wish, my god, is my command.” I suck him in as deep as I can and slide my fingers inside him. Instead of lying back, he curls over me, and surrounds my head with the blond veil of his hair. He is so beautiful and he loves me. I’m the luckiest guy ever.
I know the second I’ve found the right spot. His breath catches and he lets out a moan like a cat in heat. My pants are way too tight.
He writhes as he alternately pulls me closer and pushes me away. His hair brushes my neck and cheeks. This altar is the perfect height. He can comfortably rest his feet on my shoulders and I’ve got enough leverage to keep him mostly still. That’s where he wants to be.
His sounds get quieter and more intense. I speed up my fingers and mouth. He’s a tea kettle just before it whistles. He’s about to come.
He screams my name along with a bunch of stuff that I can’t understand, but I know it means that I’ve done a good job and he approves. And he wants me to do it again.
I keep sucking until he’s fully spent. I try to time it so I come right after he does, because he wants me to keep moving until he’s finished and I like to give a couple of precise thrusts and end deep inside him. Luckily, it didn’t take me long to figure this out. But some days it is harder than others. Today is going to be one of the hard ones.
Connor pushes at my shoulders. That doesn’t mean he’s done. That means that he wants me to be inside him and he’s not going to be distracted this time. I stand up and let him decide whether he wants to lean over the end, one of the long sides, or he wants me to join him on top.
He slides off on the side by the wall. That isn’t a lot of room, but if he wants me to thump against the wall at the outside of every thrust, far be it from me to tell him no. We’ve never done it in so little space. It looks like it could be a lot of fun. I catch his eye. His lips wear his bored expression, but his eyes are grinning. We will probably make a lot of noise.
I hold up my hand and walk into the living room. I take a cluster of picture frames off their hooks. The TV is bolted to the wall firmly enough to survive an earthquake if necessary. Connor and I won’t set off a seismograph. Not that it wouldn’t be fun to try.
Connor is exactly where I left him. I slide behind him and kiss his neck. He molds to me.
His skin is cool. I run my hands over him to warm him up. He tilts his head to the side. I kiss his neck. He turns in my arms and captures my lips. He is my captain, my king. I drink him in as he ravishes me. His hands slide under my shirt and he pinches my nipples. I am hot for him, hard for him. He pulls his mouth from mine and pants in my ear. The sound is hypnotic.
I lift him up and set him on the altar. I kiss his eyebrows, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and then I claim his lips. He gives freely. He is mine, all mine.
He twists a bit, meaning that he wants me inside him. But he isn’t quite ready, no matter what he thinks. He runs his hands under my shirt, pushing it high, but it just falls back again. He growls and tugs it off me. Now he is ready. I pull out the lube and hand it to him as I unbutton my pants. He likes this part and so do I.
His fingers are cool against my super-heated skin. I have to work to keep my eyes open. I want to close them and lean on his shoulder and have him touch me forever. He smirks and closes the lid with a snap. I take the bottle from his hand and toss it on the floor. He hates that, but I’ve got him too hot to do more than scowl. I wipe it away with a kiss that doesn’t end until his feet are on the carpet.
This time when he twists, I let him. He leans against me. I feel him up. He really is ready. I wrap a hand around his waist and suck on his earlobe as I lean him against the altar. He lifts up onto his toes. I kiss his neck and raise him just a bit more. He writhes in anticipation. I give him what he wants, what I want.
He is warm and slick and tight. He is everything that I want him to be. He is eager. He wiggles his hips. He wants me to move. I do. The wall is the perfect distance to brace my foot against, giving me extra oomph with each thrust. Connor’s gasps, moans, and cat noises get louder and louder. He pulls me up with him, or maybe it’s the other way around, but we are far off the planet, higher than a satellite.
The only thing better than coming is to almost come forever. But we don’t have forever and I am so very close. I keep him high for as long as I can then I roll my hips and tug on his balls in the way that never fails me. His voice hitches on my name. I speed up and take him in hand. He screams incomprehensible gibberish as he spills all over the sheet.
His body is heavy as I hold him against me. He wiggles and pushes me deeper. “Reid,” he gasps. “I love you.”
Hearing him say that line is too rare, too wonderful. I want this moment to last forever. But just hearing it makes me come. I fill him up and hold him tight. When my breath comes back, I whisper, “I love you, too.”
“Of course you do,” Connor says. I expect him to move away, but he lets me hold him for a moment longer.
What time is it? How long do we have?
I let Connor go. He steps away from me and looks at his dirty clothes in disgust. I do up my jeans as he walks away. I put my shirt back on and gather up all the dirties. Connor made sure that the washer was empty before my family left. I shove everything in. I wash my hands then check the dryer. The clothes are still cold and wet. Connor didn’t turn it on at all.
Maybe… maybe he wants the laundry room to be next. As I push the sideboard, credenza thingy—altar into place, I hear the shower going. Would Connor want me to join him? No, not yet. He is probably just getting the sweet stuff off. We can save the shower together for after Dad calls to let us know they are coming home.
I pause in the living room to put the picture frames back on the wall. The water stops as I pass the bathroom. I survey the pile of sheets on our bed. Where should we do it next? Plaid linen on the couch? Organic cotton against the desk? Red flannel on the dryer? But we better let the dryer heat up a bit first. Maybe if I play my cards right, I can get him to do me. After all, we’ve got the rest of the house and no one will be home for hours.
