Fic: "The Fifth Suit," (2/2) Cobb/Nash, Arthur/Eames, NC-17
Part I.
The Fifth Suit (2/2)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Cobb/Nash, OMC/Nash, Arthur/Eames, Robert/Yusuf UST
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. a lot. 14K.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, so don’t sue.
Notes: AU. A prequel to Why We Fight.
Summary: Written for the inception_kink prompt: Cock worship. But it got away from me.
“Here you go, fellas.” I slide the cheddar bacon bombs on the table, and three of the four of them dive right in, hissing as they eat because the damn things are still molten hot.
The fourth guy, Eames, is staring at me thoughtfully.
“Have you seen our friend? Tall, blond fellow-drop-dead gorgeous eyes?”
Of course I’d seen him. Practically bolting through the crowd not two minutes after I’d tried putting the moves on him and got shot the fuck down.
Putting on my most bland, innocent face, I lie. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t.”
“Is that so?” Eames’s quirks a doubtful eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else for nearly a minute, during which I fight very hard not to squirm. “Well, then. Should you see him-“
“Tell him to get his ass back here,” Arthur grunts, wrist deep in his future coronary episode.
“-please let him know that his mates are waiting breathlessly for his return,” Eames finishes more delicately.
“Sure, will do,” I promise, walking away. And if I should happen to see him while on my fifteen-doubtful-I’ll surely pass it along. At any rate, I’m really looking forward to chain-smoking at least three cigarettes to calm my fucking nerves.
But first things first, I gotta clock out without running into Ethan, who can be an unpleasant little prick even when I haven’t done anything insubordinate.
The crowds part easily for me-they always do, for the man who brings the drinks and food-and soon enough, I’m passing the bar, and Todd, who totally ignores me (what-the-fuck-ever). The stupid, batwing doors that lead into the kitchen swing open when I push them hard, and I dart through quick so they don’t hit me in the ass.
Ethan’s leaning on the wall near the time clock and looking directly at me.
He does not look happy.
I wonder if he knows. . . ?
No. There’s no way. Angel-face seems like a good enough egg. And even if he was a tattler, he couldn’t have gotten to Ethan this fast . . . could he?
Sighing, I square my shoulders and march toward impending doom like a man.
*
It’s been nearly a minute since I asked her what she’s been smoking, and all she’s done is stare at me like I’m a puppy who piddled on the carpet.
Finally she sighs. “Look, whatever homosexual panic you’re going through, table it for the moment and hear me out.”
“I’m not a homosexual!” I hiss, not daring to look around and see if anyone heard.
Ariadne sighs again. “Whatever you are, you’ve made it pretty obvious that you’re attracted to my friend. And he’s made it clear that if you wanted him to, he’d go home with you in a heartbeat.”
I think back to what Nash had said and avoid her gaze. “I don’t see that I’ve made anything obvious.”
“There are none so blind,” she says, just like Eames had. Startled, I meet her eyes to see not amusement, but compassion.
“He really likes you,” she says softly. “And that says a lot about how awesome you must be, because Nash? Doesn’t like anyone. It took him three months just to warm up to me, and I’m adorable.”
I snort.
“Anyway, he likes you. Like-likes you. But he’s too scared of losing his job to say anything to you, so I’ll say it for him, since I don’t give two shits about this hellhole: are you gonna leave here, letting him think you don’t want him? Or are you gonna man-up and admit to yourself that whatever else your preferences are normally, tonight, your sex-arrow is pointing Nash-ward?”
“I-sex-arrow?”
Ariadne shrugs. “I’m an architect, not a writer. Sue me.”
“I could, you know,” I muse wishfully, knowing that even was I so inclined, I really couldn’t.
“For what?”
“Slander.”
“Assuming you could convince a judge in San Francisco that implying someone might be a teeny bit gay is slander. Which I doubt you could.”
“Could, too. I’m an attorney.” I nearly stick my tongue out at her.
Her eyes widen and she nods approvingly. “Criminal?”
“Corporate.”
“Ah. Where the real money is.” She nods again. “I’m liking you more and more all the time. You’d be good for Nash. He deserves someone who could treat him right.”
“And because I have money, you assume that I would?”
She blinks then grins. “No. I assume you would because, like I said, you clearly like him. And I just . . . get a good vibe off of you. The money is icing on the cake.”
“My money is neither here nor there. And you know what they say about assumptions, don’t you?”
“That they’re the mother of all fuck-ups? Agreed; most of the time they are. But I don’t think I’m coming out of left field on this one.” She gives me another piercing look, and I glance away, down the alley.
“Maybe not, but you’re certainly out of line.”
“Yes, but adorably so.” She tugs on my arm and I look down at her. That cheeky grin is back. “I really do like you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to get you to see reason. You like Nash, and Nash obviously likes you . . . a lot. You both live in the gayest city in the world, the place you’re least likely to get judged . . . what’s the problem?”
And I don’t know what it is about her-maybe it’s that I get a good vibe off of her, too-but I think she really cares, and really wants to see Nash happily paired off. With me, no less.
“Listen, you’re young-“ she rolls her eyes and gives me the finger. “No, listen: you’re young, not set in your ways. If some woman came along that caught your eye, you’d think nothing of pursuing her, would you?”
“Wouldn’t and haven’t,” she says proudly. “Back in Montreal, I knew this girl named Mallorie . . . holy God, but she was ridiculous-hot. And beautiful. Boy, did I pursue. And I got her, too. For awhile, anyway. But it wasn't meant to be.” She shrugs. "C'est la vie."
“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy for me. In my generation-“
“Oh, please! You’re what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-four.”
She blows me a raspberry. “B.F.D, man. You’re one Gen removed. And like I said, in this day and age, in this city, no one cares who you do. Or date. Or fall in love with. Or adopt a Korean orphan with.”
“That’s not the point,” I start to say, and she cuts me off with a gesture.
“Then what is the point, Dominic? Because I’m not seeing one.” She lets go of my arm to cross hers obstinately.
I do the same.
“The point, young-lady-whom-I-just-met, is . . . none of your business.”
“Only because you know there isn’t one. You’re just a chicken-shit.”
“I-no one’s ever called me that before,” I tell her, Squinting as hard as I can. She huffs, squinting back at me like someone’s disapproving mother.
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time someone did, eh? Because anyone who can’t follow his heart when it really counts is exactly that: a chicken-shit of the first water, who needs to get his act together before he loses out on something really good.”
And with that, she flounces to the door, slams it open, and disappears inside, leaving me out here with a bunch of indifferent smokers.
Coughing, I glare at each and every one of them, and start after Ariadne, wanting to have the last word, even if she-maybe-was a little bit right.
I yank the door open, more denials on my lips.
*
After what turns out to be a pretty token dressing down by Ethan, I stalk through the bar, past Todd, through the customers, to the smokers' exit.
“Hey, Nash-“ someone starts to say, as I stomp past, but I’ve already got my cigarette out and jammed in the corner of my mouth, and my lighter in my hand. No time to talk, now.
At the door, I pause to light up before swinging it open. Well, before it’s swung open from the outside.
I’m face to surprised-Angel-face with the fifth suit.
*
It’s Nash. . . .
Just who I don’t need to see, right now.
Just who I really want to see right now.
I’d wonder if Ariadne sent him out here, but not only didn’t she have the time, but he looks so startled, he obviously didn’t expect to run into me out here.
I resist the unbelievably strong urge to take the cigarette out of his mouth and replace it with my tongue. “Those’ll, uh, kill ya, ya know.”
“This, or a bus the next time I’m crossing Van Ness.” He laughs. And though he immediately removes the cigarette, he doesn’t remove the temptation. “If you don’t smoke, what’re you doing out here?”
About to chase down your out-spoken friend and deny that I’m attracted to you hardly seems like a good answer. “Uh, getting some fresh air.”
Nash looks around at all the smokers then back at me. “Mission accomplished.”
I laugh, and he grins. It makes him look all of sixteen and very suddenly I feel like a dirty, dirty old man.
But that doesn’t stop me from staring at him, or noticing that he’s staring right back at me.
“I’m on my fifteen minute break,” he says, turned shy once more and apropos of nothing. I nod, and that grin wavers a bit. “Got nothin’ to do but kill time.”
Just then I remember the guys, and the horror that is karaoke. “Ah, shit-I gotta go back in-my friends are probably wondering where I am.”
“Oh. Yeah. They are,” Nash says a bit ruefully, puffing on his cigarette and looking away. Smoke almost immediately plumes back out of his mouth. Shaking his head, he flicks the cigarette out into the night, even though it’s barely been smoked. “The British guy wanted me to let you know they’re waiting breathlessly for your return.”
He stands aside to let me go past, and I do-but as I pass, I wind up catching his gaze, and . . . Ariadne was right. Eames was right. About everything. I want him, more than I’ve wanted anyone within recent memory.
“Hey,” I say softly, uncertainly, leaning in toward him a little, and he moves closer to me. “I-I think-“
“’Scuse us,” one of two pretty blondes trills as she and her friend slink past Nash, who’s all of a sudden pressed against me.
Ostensibly to let the two ladies go by.
He’s warm, and surprisingly solid, despite being so slim, and if I’m not mistaken . . . he really, really likes me.
I don’t even realize I’ve closed my eyes till I open them and find myself staring down into his. I can feel him shivering.
“You’re really pinging my ‘dar, right now, you know.” He laughs a little, nervously, and his fingers brush my own lightly. This close, I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re lovely, dark, and deep. “Are you sure you’re straight?”
*
Angel-face sighs, but doesn’t look away, his eyes as solemn as any I’ve ever seen.
“Not so sure, anymore,” he admits quietly, taking a deep, deep breath. His fingers lace themselves with my own, and my eyes flutter shut.
I want him to kiss me . . . but not here, where people can gawk.
When I open my eyes, he’s this close to me, his lips gently puckered, and I’m this close to saying to Hell with it, and letting him.
But I think that once we kiss . . . it’s not gonna stop there.
Fuck, I won’t let it stop there.
“Wait.” I turn my face a little, catching his kiss on my cheek, shivering again at the light, wet swipe of tongue.
“Wait?” he asks, sounding uncertain again, and I look into his eyes with some serious fucking intent.
“If you can hold off till I get us a little privacy, I’ll let you do anything you want to me, on me, and in me.” This time, Angel-face is the one shivering, his eyes gone wide and pupils super-dilated. “Okay?”
“Y-yeah.”
I smirk, tugging him around the edges of the common area, toward the coatroom.
*
Like a love-struck puppy, I follow him, not caring where we go, just so long as I get to keep touching him. Even just holding his hand is like a revelation. It sets all my nerve-endings to tingling and burning in a way they never have before.
The fact that we’re two men holding hands, in a crowd of people is far less important or disturbing than the fact that there’s so much of him I haven't yet touched. . . .
I’m hard enough, now, that walking is uncomfortable. But before long, we’re at a familiar recessed counter, where a bored-looking redhead sits popping gum and flipping through a magazine. She looks up as we approach, her eyes ticking between Nash and me.
“What’s all this?” she asks, gazing meaningfully at our hands and grinning. She blows a bubble that pops loudly. Almost as loud as the smacking sounds she makes afterward.
“Tara, babe, I need the coatroom for the next ten, fifteen minutes,” Nash says hurriedly, glancing back at me with that insouciant smirk. The fire it ignites threatens to consume me.
“So it’s like that, is it?” She blows another bubble and waits for it to pop. “What’s in it for me?”
Nash glances at me again, as if for help. I shrug, and he turns back to her. “Uh . . . the satisfaction of bringing star-crossed lovers together?”
“Hah! Try again, Don Juan!”
“How about a chance to not be a bitch, for once?” Nash snaps, and I wince. And Tara looks like she’s about to say a very firm no.
“Wait-how about-“ take out my wallet. Aside from my credit cards and a few photos of Arthur and I from college, there’re exactly five singles in my billfold. “Five bucks?”
Tara snatches my wallet and rifles through the cash. She takes it out with a haughty sniff. “With a suit like that, figures you’d have more than five dollars,” she says disapprovingly.
“I have credit cards so I don’t have to carry cash.” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but I do. I snatch my wallet back and Tara flips the counter up.
“Get in here before Ethan sees you.”
“Yes!” Nash drags me past her, to a tall, narrow door. He opens it, flicking on a light. Hung on three separate circular racks are more coats than I’ve ever seen in one place.
Nash turns to grin at me.
“Shut the door, baby,” he says lowly. I do, flushing hot and blanching cold as my blood races. He steps closer, pressing himself against me again. We’re both hard, and the friction does crazy things to my brain.
“You feel nice,” Nash murmurs, taking my hands once more and leaning in to nuzzle my neck. I can’t even describe how good it feels.
“Jesus . . . you f-feel nice, too.”
“And don’t stain any of the coats, or it’s my ass!” Tara screeches through the door, making us both jump.
We stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments then laugh.
“C’mon,” Nash says, tugging me deeper into the forest of coats. At the end of the journey is a small folding table, some chairs, and a ratty-looking couch.
Now Nash looks at me expectantly. I blush and try on what I hope is a worldly smile. But it’s belied by the next words that come out of my mouth: “So . . . what happens next?”
Nash licks his lips and smirks. “I was thinking we’d start with a blowjob, and see where it goes from there.”
*
Angel-face’s eyes widen and he swallows, nodding hesitantly.
Nothing could surprise me more than when he drops to his knees.
“Baby, baby, what’re you doing?” I ask, trying not to laugh. He looks so scared and young, that I want to kiss him and hug him. Or at the very least reassure him that I meant I would be the one giving the blowjob.
At least . . . that’s what I’d meant till I saw him on his knees, his face so close to my dick.
“I, uh . . . don’t really know what I’m doing,” Angel-face says shakily, pushing up my apron. Ever helpful, I tug the damn thing over my head and toss it at the couch. Angel-face smiles up at me, and puts his hands on my waist.
Then on my belt.
Then he’s leaning forward, nuzzling my hard-on and mouthing it uncertainly through fabric and my head falls back.
A long, low groan comes from somewhere . . . and I realize: that’s me.
Even through my pants and boxers his mouth feels amazing.
“Fuuuucckk.” I look down at him. His hands are hooked in my belt and he’s still mouthing me slowly-pretty amateurly-and with increasing confidence. And it’s no wonder, considering the noises I’ve been making.
I cup his face in my hand, and when he looks up, I smile.
“Take me out,” I tell him, brushing my thumb across his perfect lips. And: “I wanna feel your mouth on me.”
Angel-face swallows again-gotta love his instincts-and nods. Without breaking gazes, he undoes my belt and my fly and hesitates for a moment . . . then he pulls my pants and boxers down carefully, without letting his hands or the fabric touch my dick.
When there’s a puddle of fabric at my feet, Angel-face finally looks at my dick. For, like, ever.
Finally, I start getting antsy, and shifting my weight from foot to foot.
“What? Don’t like what you see?” I demand, and those blue-blue eyes meet mine, and. . . .
. . . he smiles. It’s a fragile, sweet sort of smile that makes my heart beat faster.
“I think I’m kinda gay,” he says calmly. Then he leans forward and licks the tip of my cock in one long, slow rasp.
“Fuck, I think you’re kinda gay, too.” I exhale. Angel-face’s smile widens, and he goes back for more.
Another one of those groans echoes in the room.
*
It’s not anything like I thought it would be.
I’d expected-well, to not like the way he tasted, smelled, or felt, but on the contrary, he’s saltymuskyhotperfection against my tongue and in my mouth. At least until I nearly choke, trying to take him all the way in.
“Easy, baby, easy. You’re not used to sucking dick, so you gotta take it slow,” Nash soothes, running his fingers through my hair. “I’ll stay still, and you just-do whatever, okay? Whatever feels right.”
Still coughing a little, I look up at him then back down at his erection, red, and shiny with my spit.
I just had another man’s cock in my mouth and . . . not only am I not freaking out about it, I’m planning on doing it again, as soon as I catch my breath.
Or maybe a little sooner than that: I can’t seem to stop myself from kissing and licking his cock, and nuzzling the straight, dark hair at the base. I brace myself on his thigh with one hand and cup his balls with the other. I don’t know what he likes, so I just do what I like having done. I squeeze them gently and tug on them lightly.
He moans his encouragement and that makes me bolder. Makes me eager to try taking him in again, so I do. Slow, just like he’d said, humming, just like my ex-wife used to do to me.
“Fuuuck-you sure you’ve never sucked dick before?”
I hum a soft nuh-uh around half his cock. When I glance up at him, he’s gazing steadily down at me, breathing fast and hard.
Suppressing a smirk of my own, I keeps licking and sucking as best I can, taking in as much of him as my current skill level will allow. When he hits the back of my throat, I back off a bit, careful not to make the same mistake twice. But Nash groans, pinching the root of his cock between his fingers.
“Okay, you gotta stop now, baby . . . I’m gonna come and you ain’t ready to swallow.”
He says it in a gentling voice, like I’m a high-strung, nervous animal he’s trying to tame. I roll my eyes at him and hum nuh-uh again, and take him as deep as I can once more,
*
Angel-face moans around my dick and shakes his head a little, sucking harder, drool running down his chin. It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is. It so is. . . .
I wind my fingers through his hair and pull his head back till all that’s still in his mouth is the tip of my cock. He sucks on it like a it’s a Blow-Pop and it’s all I can do not to shove myself down his throat.
“Last chance,” I warn him as the familiar tingling rush shoots down my spine and through my balls. Angel-face’s eyes meet mine, all challenging and intense. So I push my cock back into his mouth, a little more than halfway, and let him do his thing. Soon enough, I feel that tight, hot, drawing-up sensation in my balls and burning at the base of my cock.
“Fuck,” I moan then I’m coming so hard it feels like I’m being turned inside out.
And I just keep coming and coming, until it feels like there’s nothing left to me but grunts and gasps.
When it’s finally over, my legs start to wobble, but Angel-face is standing up to catch me, guiding me over to the couch. He sits me down and parks it right next to me. His face is red and he’s massaging his jaw gingerly.
“You alright?” I ask, flopping a hand on his thigh. It’s still tingly and numb and pretty boneless. Angel-face looks at me and smiles, wiping his mouth a little.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughs a bit ruefully. “I’m definitely gay.”
I squeeze his arm lightly. “One blowjob doesn’t make you definitely gay. Only kinda,” I say. I’d say just about anything after an orgasm like that.
“If I really liked giving it, I think it does.” His eyes tick to mine again, thoughtful and grave. “Or maybe I’m just into you.”
I lick my lips and smirk-smirk-smirk. “You could be into me, if you want.”
Angel-face’s eyes go wide. He’s so fucking beautiful when he does that.
“You mean, uh. . . .”
I kick off my shoes, pants, and boxers, swinging my legs up onto his.
“I mean, if you’ve got a rubber, then I’ll be more than happy to broaden your education, Angel-face.”
“I-fuck. Fuck, I don’t, but-I know someone who does. Wait right here!” He jumps up, nearly dumping me on the floor, and makes for the door like every hound in Hell is after him, leaving me to scramble on the edge of the couch before finally hitting the floor with a squawk.
*
My jaw still aches and I’m out of breath when I get back to the table.
Eames isn’t there. Neither is Arthur. But Yusuf and Robert still are.
“Where the fuck is Eames?” I demand, and they look at me like I’m a madman.
“He and Arthur went to the men’s room . . . awhile ago, actually.” Robert frowns. “I should see what’s taking them so long-“
“NO!” Yusuf and I say at the same time. But Yusuf is the one who elaborates. “I think Greg and Arthur are . . . working out their differences. It’d be best to leave them to it.”
“Oh. Oh!” Robert’s wide eyes get wider as he realizes exactly what Eames and Arthur are probably doing in the bathroom. Then he grins. “Go, Arthur!”
Yusuf laughs. “Indeed. Now, what was it you needed, Dom? Perhaps I can help.”
“Uh . . . it's something I’m thinking only Eames could help me with. . . .”
“Try me.”
My face goes up in flames, but I’m desperate, and hard enough that each beat of my heart makes me want to bury my cock somewhere warm and tight.
And I know just the place.
“Look, I need a-a condom,” I whisper. Now Yusuf’s eyes are the ones that go wide. Then he’s grinning, too. But apologetically.
“Ah, there I cannot help you, my friend-“
“I can!” Robert takes out his wallet and from inside the billfold, pulls a crinkled foil packet. “Et, voila!”
Yusuf and I can only gape at him.
“What? It’s not like I’m a virgin,” Robert scoffs defensively.
Whatever he is, I could kiss him. Instead, I grab the condom and fight my way back through the crowd, almost beyond caring if they can see my erection through my pants.
When I get to the coatroom, Tara obligingly flips up the counter with a sarcastic: “Go get ‘im, Champ!”
“Thanks!”
Then I’m hurtling through the door and past the coats, the sleeves of which seem to slap me in the face with malignant will.
But it’s only seconds before I’m at the couch, and Nash-
-holy mother of God, Nash is completely naked, on his hands and knees on the couch, and smirking over his shoulder.
“I took the time to prepare myself while you were gone, so you can just climb on, slide in, and get to it.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say again, already unbuckling my belt. When my pants and shorts hit the floor, I kick them and my shoes off impatiently. I want nothing more than to get to the smooth, creamy acres of skin displayed before me; I want to feel him against me and under me, moving with me. I want inside that cute little ass more than I've wanted anything-and that includes my law degree.
Meanwhile, Nash’s eyes have locked onto my cock and he huffs out a breathless laugh.
“But I don’t think I prepared enough . . . fuck. You’ve got a monster on you, baby.” Another breathless laugh. "Good thing for you I'm such a fucking size-queen, Mr. Monster-Dick."
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard words to that effect. Frankly, my cock’s always seemed about symmetrical to the rest of me. But hearing Nash call it a ‘monster’ makes me start to believe there might be something to what my ex-girlfriends and ex-wife used to say.
So I look down at my cock, which is sticking straight up at this point. It looks the same as always: not particularly monstrous. I shrug.
“C’mon-roll that condom on and hop to!”
But Nash doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds . . . hungry. Like he wants something from me that only I can give.
No one’s ever sounded like that for me.
Bemused for the second time this evening, I roll the condom on carefully-it’s kind of too short and too tight, but it’ll have to do-and approach the couch. With each step I get more nervous.
Then I’m kneeling on the couch behind him, one arm bracketing his ribs, the other bracing myself on the of the couch. I can feel his body heat like a crazy form of skin-magnetism, drawing me closer and closer till my thighs are between his, my cock pressed against the cleft of his ass. It's the most pleasantly dizzying sensation I've ever experienced. For the first time ever, I feel like I'm the king of the world.
“What, uh-“ I ask, staring at the back of his head, which is lowered like that of a penitent. I want to touch him all over . . . make him moan and sigh. Unfortunately I have no idea how to do that other than blowing him, which I've already done. "How should I, uh-"
“Jeez, don’t tell me you’ve never done anal, before?”
“Uh-“
Nash looks over his shoulder again, surprised. “Not even with a girlfriend?”
My silence probably says it all.
Nash giggles, but I get the feeling it's not at my expense. “Oh, my God, I’m with a virgin! Wonders never cease!”
“Hey, now, I’m not a-“
“But you are, baby! I’m the first man you’ve ever sucked off, and the first man you’ll fuck!” Nash squirms back against me, till my cock is wedged firmly between the cheeks of his ass. I groan, wanting, more than anything, to be inside him. “Holy shit, that’s a rush!”
“Just tell me what to do,” I practically beg, and Nash squirms against me again, breathing hard. I put one steadying hand on his hip.
“Have you ever fucked a girl doggy-style?”
“Yeah. . . .”
“Well, it’s kind of like that, only there’s one less hole to deal with.”
I blink. “That . . . oddly enough makes sense.”
Nash arches his spine. “What can I say? I’m a freakin’ genius. Now fuck me.”
*
OW.
It’s the first thing I think as he starts to push that monster into me-slower than I expected but still too fucking fast-though I manage not to say it out loud. I just breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and will my body to relax.
“Oh . . . oh, God, you’re so tight,” he moans happily, forcing his dick a little bit deeper . . . a little bit deeper . . . inch, by agonizing inch.
If he was any other guy, Todd included, I'd have been dressed and out the door already. I like the challenge of taking a big cock, but Jesus Christ, even I have my limits. I'm starting to think Angel-face, the most perfect guy I've ever seen, let alone met, is that limit. Even with lube, it probably wouldn't have been fun taking him, but without it? Just working with my own thin fingers and spit? Fucking impossible. . . .
But I'm determined to see this through. I still want Angel-face . . . I'm just not sure I can take him the way he deserves to be taken, first time and all.
“Touch me, baby. Stroke me off,” I tell him. It’s the only thing that’s gonna slow him down and maybe turn pain into mere discomfort.
I really didn’t prepare myself enough. Not remotely. I honestly don't think I could have.
But I’ll remember for next time. Assuming there is one. And if there’s not, well, Angel-face is giving me enough dick to last the rest of my lifetime.
Sure enough, as he starts stroking me off, his thrusting slows and gentles, till he’s in as far as he’s likely to go without literally tearing me a new asshole. His hand on my dick feels good, though I'm not getting hard.
(Turns out, he’s about as good at reach-arounds as he is at dick-sucking-which isn’t very, but he’s so enthusiastic, so fucking reverent about it, I could probably get off on that alone if I weren't being skewered alive.)
I’m breathing hard, half in pain, half turned on, and unable to move because I’m too full. I need some time to get used to him. If only whoever gave him the condom had given him some lube. (And maybe the jaws of life, as well.) I’m just not used to taking guys dry, no matter how non-huge they are. “Keep stroking, but don’t move for a minute, okay?”
“Don’t think I’m gonna last a minute,” he admits, sounding both pleased and embarrassed about that. “God, I feel like a teenager. I just wanna come then fuck you again.”
At that, my muscles clench up reflexively. I can’t tell whether from anticipation or anxiety, but it makes Angel-face groan again. I open my eyes, see the ugly pattern of the couch, and close them again. I focus on being as loose as possible. My body is made of rubber, and I can stretch to accommodate even his ginormous dick.
“Just a little bit longer, baby, then you can move, okay?” I promise, too full to even breathe properly, it feels like.
“’Kay . . . ‘kay,” Angel-face says, voice cracking like the teenager he claims to feel like. He keeps stroking me off, till I’m as hard as I’m gonna get without him banging my prostate like a Salvation Army drum. But the odds of him finding my spot on his first fuck ever are slim to none.
This wouldn’t be the first time I got fucked without coming, but it'll be the most disappointing. Not that that's Angel-face's fault. “Okay, move. But go. Slowly,” I add.
There’s a light, damp sensation between my shoulder blades. I think he just kissed my back. It's a weirdly tender gesture and it takes me by surprise. I literally don't know how to respond to that. But my body apparently does: I get a little harder, and having him inside me is just a little less agonizing.
“Tell me how to make this good for you,” he murmurs on my skin, and I shiver, my body tensing a little before it relaxes a bit more. Angel-face kisses my left shoulder, then my right. “You looked so . . . beautiful when you came before. Tell me what I can do to make you look like that again.”
Wow . . . keep sweet-talking me, for starters, I think; but I say: “Before you thrust, try changing up your angles some. At least until. . . .” I trail off as he pulls out and eases his way back in again. This time, the pain is much more bearable.
“Until?”
I bow my back, clenching around him on purpose. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did last time and it makes Angel-face swear and swivel his hips experimentally. “Until I start howling like a banshee, babe.”
“Ahhhh. Will do.” Angel-face pulls out slowly, angles his thrust, and pushes back in just as slowly. This time the pain is more like extreme discomfort. The next thrust, going in at a slightly different angle, is much less extreme.
And the next one.
And the next one.
Until the pain is a lingering memory, the discomfort fading away. Through it all, Angel-face doesn’t stop stroking me, doesn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. Granted the rhythm of thrust, stroke, and words don’t even remotely match, but it still feels . . . is starting to feel kinda good.
And I dunno how he manages it, but Angel-face swipes his thumb across the tip of my cock at the same time as one of his angled thrusts hits pay-dirt. The size-queen in me finally sits up and takes notice, and I howl.
Like a banshee.
“Holy fuck,” Angel-face breathes, interrupting his flow of beautifuls and sexys. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding!”
“Oh, God, just like that, baby, just like that! Perfect-“ I gasp, closing my hand around his own to make him stroke faster, bearing down on him to keep him from pulling out, but he does, anyway. It’s pleasure and pain all rolled together in one powerhouse sensation. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. . . .”
“Shhh,” he kisses onto my back, one thumb lightly stroking my hip. “I won’t. I couldn't.”
Then he’s in me again, at that same exact angle, and I see stars. I see fireworks. Hell, I see my life flash before my eyes, and I realize the last twenty-one years I spent not being fucked by this man have been a waste.
“God, you’re so fucking good, baby, so good. . . !” I know I’m getting loud, probably loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear, but I don’t care. Angel-face is speeding up, riding my ass like a rodeo cowboy, and it feels good. More than good, it feels. . . .
“Harder-fuck me harder,” I grit out, not caring that my forehead is already hitting the arm of the couch on every thrust, or that my ass is starting to hurt again as he really puts his back into it. The world is sparkly, happy goodness, and everything else can just get fucked.
But it won’t be getting fucked as good as I am.
“Think . . . fuck, I think I’m coming-I think-“ Angel-face grunts and stops stroking me off. Both of his hands clamp down on my hips tight and he pulls me back against him. Big as he is, I can feel the pulse and throb of him anyway, but when he comes, hot and a lot, I can feel it even more, like a tuning fork hitting the key of prostate.
“Oh!” he exclaims, and keeps exclaiming it, pumping his dick-still pretty hard-in and out of me. One of the hands bruising my hips reaches around me again, takes my cock, and starts stripping the living Christ out of it, till I come for a second time, howling and shouting.
*
By the time Nash comes again, I’m soft enough to slip out of him without hurting him-I’m pretty sure I did, at the beginning-and without him even noticing.
When it’s over, I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him close through the shaking and shuddering and swearing. Till he’s just a limp puddle of waiter in my arms, and we slump down to the couch in a comfortable tangle.
After a few minutes, Nash groans almost desperately. “F-fuck, that was. . . .”
“Yeah, it really was,” I agree, laughing a little worriedly. I’ve just literally had the best orgasm of my life, and I had it with another man, on a tacky, slightly gross couch, with a whole restaurant probably listening in.
“I think you just realigned my spine.” Nash starts shifting and wriggling underneath me and I lever myself up onto my hands and knees. He struggles onto his back and looks up at me, a flushed, sweaty, unbelievably beautiful mess.
He smiles wearily-and satedly, I’d like to think-and brushes my hair out of my face. I do the same to him and he leans into my touch with a happy sigh.
“I just popped your cherry,” he informs me smugly, and I laugh again, sitting back on my heels. Nash is lounging about like he was never meant to be any way or anywhere else but fucked-out and on a dirty couch. With me.
“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” I ask him. It just kind of slips out, and he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t start that again. You don’t have to keep stroking my . . . ego, now that you’ve gotten into my pants.”
“That’s not why I was saying it.” I can't even hear the words over the renewed pounding of my heart.
Nash looks confused for a moment then he smirks again, running his finger through the spatters of come on his stomach. He puts that finger in his mouth, sucks it clean, and my cock is suddenly, keenly interested in a repeat performance. Nash’s smirk turns into that shy smile that makes him look all of sixteen. “If you want another go, all you have to do is say the word, Big Daddy, and I’ll get on my knees, my stomach, my back-my head, if you want me to.”
My cock twitches again-I haven’t had a refractory time this fast since college-with continued interest. Then I sigh, glancing down my body. My shirt and tie are askew and my jacket wrinkled. I'm missing a cufflink. My cock is still standing out enough to be visible through the tails of my shirt.
No one's ever gotten to me like this, and I'm more than a little scared of what it all means. It makes me want to run and hide somewhere. At least till I've had a chance to think. “As much as I’d like to take you up on that, I’ve only got the one cond-ah, fuck!”
“What?”
“The condom.” I pull the shredded-looking, soggy remains of the condom off me, and drop it on the floor. It hits with a soggy plap. “It broke.”
A beat goes by, and Nash snorts, closing his eyes and scratching his chest. “Well, look at it this way, Sport: at least I’m not ovulating.”
Which startles another laugh out of me, concerned though I am about . . . uh, I guess everything. Including barebacking a man I barely know.
Then Nash opens his eyes, gazing up at me serenely. When he looks into my eyes, I find it difficult to keep that concern going and even more difficult to be scared of the implications of . . . him.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m clean. I always use protection, and you’re the only guy who’s ever busted a condom on me.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, squeezing gently. “Feel free to tell me the same.”
I blush, pulling his hand to my face to kiss it. His eyes widen and his brow furrows like he's confused. As if I'm the first person to ever show him even such a small gesture of affection. “The last person I had sex with was my ex-wife. That was almost a year ago.”
“Jesus. Shit. Well, that’s good enough for me.” He sits up and stretches with a groan. “Fuck, I think you broke me, Angel-face.”
“Shit-I’m sorry, I was trying not to hurt you-“ I scramble off the couch; off of Nash, who sighs, looking aggrieved.
“It was just a joke, Handsome. You know? Funny, haha?” Nash rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I’m sore, but you’ve got a huge dick: It was to be expected. Now, help me up so we can get dressed.“
I do. Once on his feet, I get my first good look at him: he’s a few inches shorter than me, pale, and built lean. He doesn’t have much in the way of chest hair. What little there is is fine and sparse. His knees and elbows are knobby, and I can just about make out his ribs. He’s a little too thin . . . it makes me want to take him home and feed him. To see him lounge around on my couch, looking like he never belonged anywhere else.
“See something you like?” Nash executes an unsteady model spin, giving me great view of his ass. My cock twitches again, and I grin.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Nash looks surprised and confused once more, then blushes. All over.
“Right. Uh, let’s get dressed and get out of here before my manager catches us. Or before your friends start getting worried,” he says, his eyes skittering everywhere but mine. I step close to him and stare at him until he finally looks at me, wary and questioning.
“Look, whaddaya say we . . . I dunno, go out for coffee, some time-”
“’Some time’?” Nash’s eyes narrow. “Jeez. Don’t put yourself out on my account.”
I put my hands on his shoulders and pull him close. Till our foreheads are touching. “If you’d let me finish, I’d have said some time after your shift. I'd really like to get to know you better.”
Some of that wary look leaves his face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
I pull him against me in a loose embrace, swaying us to the strains of 'I Think I Love You' that are coming from the bar. “Believe me when I say that I look forward to getting to know you.”
Nash smiles uncertainly. Then he grins. Then he smirks. “Sheee-it. You’d say just about anything to get out of karaoke, wouldn’t you?”
*
In the men’s room, exactly four feet and one wall away, Greg Eames and Arthur Goldstein get to their feet.
“What did I tell you?” Eames says, pointing to the vent at which they’d been eavesdropping. “Our boy’s a five beer-queer.”
Arthur sniffs, taking out his wallet. “I suppose I’ll never hear the end of it,” he sighs, selecting two fifties and holding them out to Eames. But Eames waves him away, grinning.
“Now-now, Arthur-darling, you know good and well I don’t want your money.”
Arthur sighs again. “Well, I can’t imagine what you’d want in its place, Mr. Eames.”
“Mmm, I’m certain you can imagine.” Eames steps closer to Arthur, who for a wonder doesn’t back away. “I want to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by Dominic and his little playmate.”
“Look, Eames-“
“No, you look, Arthur. We kissed.” Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s chest and slides them up till his arms are wrapped loosely around his neck. Arthur’s own hands settle on Eames’s hips possessively, like they were never meant to be anywhere else. “You must realize I’ve been in love with you for quite some time . . . surely you don’t mean to make me wait any longer?”
Staring at Eames’s collarbone, Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Eames . . . I’m not easy to get along with. I don’t do feelings. I don’t have a sense of humor. I probably drink too much. I’m a member of the NRA, a fact that has frightened off more than a few of my lovers. I’m overly competitive. I’m a Log Cabin Republican-I voted McCain twice. Would’ve voted for him three times if he hadn’t picked Loony-Toons McJesus-Freak as his running mate. I’m allergic to cats, and I know you have one. I top exclusively. I get very jealous, very easily. In fact-“
“Arthur.” Eames interrupts, laughing and pulling Arthur close. He practically purrs when Arthur’s hands slide around to his ass and dark brown eyes meet his own wonderingly. “Shut up and kiss me, darling.”
For once, Arthur does as Eames tells him.
The Fifth Suit (2/2)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Cobb/Nash, OMC/Nash, Arthur/Eames, Robert/Yusuf UST
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. a lot. 14K.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, so don’t sue.
Notes: AU. A prequel to Why We Fight.
Summary: Written for the inception_kink prompt: Cock worship. But it got away from me.
“Here you go, fellas.” I slide the cheddar bacon bombs on the table, and three of the four of them dive right in, hissing as they eat because the damn things are still molten hot.
The fourth guy, Eames, is staring at me thoughtfully.
“Have you seen our friend? Tall, blond fellow-drop-dead gorgeous eyes?”
Of course I’d seen him. Practically bolting through the crowd not two minutes after I’d tried putting the moves on him and got shot the fuck down.
Putting on my most bland, innocent face, I lie. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t.”
“Is that so?” Eames’s quirks a doubtful eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else for nearly a minute, during which I fight very hard not to squirm. “Well, then. Should you see him-“
“Tell him to get his ass back here,” Arthur grunts, wrist deep in his future coronary episode.
“-please let him know that his mates are waiting breathlessly for his return,” Eames finishes more delicately.
“Sure, will do,” I promise, walking away. And if I should happen to see him while on my fifteen-doubtful-I’ll surely pass it along. At any rate, I’m really looking forward to chain-smoking at least three cigarettes to calm my fucking nerves.
But first things first, I gotta clock out without running into Ethan, who can be an unpleasant little prick even when I haven’t done anything insubordinate.
The crowds part easily for me-they always do, for the man who brings the drinks and food-and soon enough, I’m passing the bar, and Todd, who totally ignores me (what-the-fuck-ever). The stupid, batwing doors that lead into the kitchen swing open when I push them hard, and I dart through quick so they don’t hit me in the ass.
Ethan’s leaning on the wall near the time clock and looking directly at me.
He does not look happy.
I wonder if he knows. . . ?
No. There’s no way. Angel-face seems like a good enough egg. And even if he was a tattler, he couldn’t have gotten to Ethan this fast . . . could he?
Sighing, I square my shoulders and march toward impending doom like a man.
*
It’s been nearly a minute since I asked her what she’s been smoking, and all she’s done is stare at me like I’m a puppy who piddled on the carpet.
Finally she sighs. “Look, whatever homosexual panic you’re going through, table it for the moment and hear me out.”
“I’m not a homosexual!” I hiss, not daring to look around and see if anyone heard.
Ariadne sighs again. “Whatever you are, you’ve made it pretty obvious that you’re attracted to my friend. And he’s made it clear that if you wanted him to, he’d go home with you in a heartbeat.”
I think back to what Nash had said and avoid her gaze. “I don’t see that I’ve made anything obvious.”
“There are none so blind,” she says, just like Eames had. Startled, I meet her eyes to see not amusement, but compassion.
“He really likes you,” she says softly. “And that says a lot about how awesome you must be, because Nash? Doesn’t like anyone. It took him three months just to warm up to me, and I’m adorable.”
I snort.
“Anyway, he likes you. Like-likes you. But he’s too scared of losing his job to say anything to you, so I’ll say it for him, since I don’t give two shits about this hellhole: are you gonna leave here, letting him think you don’t want him? Or are you gonna man-up and admit to yourself that whatever else your preferences are normally, tonight, your sex-arrow is pointing Nash-ward?”
“I-sex-arrow?”
Ariadne shrugs. “I’m an architect, not a writer. Sue me.”
“I could, you know,” I muse wishfully, knowing that even was I so inclined, I really couldn’t.
“For what?”
“Slander.”
“Assuming you could convince a judge in San Francisco that implying someone might be a teeny bit gay is slander. Which I doubt you could.”
“Could, too. I’m an attorney.” I nearly stick my tongue out at her.
Her eyes widen and she nods approvingly. “Criminal?”
“Corporate.”
“Ah. Where the real money is.” She nods again. “I’m liking you more and more all the time. You’d be good for Nash. He deserves someone who could treat him right.”
“And because I have money, you assume that I would?”
She blinks then grins. “No. I assume you would because, like I said, you clearly like him. And I just . . . get a good vibe off of you. The money is icing on the cake.”
“My money is neither here nor there. And you know what they say about assumptions, don’t you?”
“That they’re the mother of all fuck-ups? Agreed; most of the time they are. But I don’t think I’m coming out of left field on this one.” She gives me another piercing look, and I glance away, down the alley.
“Maybe not, but you’re certainly out of line.”
“Yes, but adorably so.” She tugs on my arm and I look down at her. That cheeky grin is back. “I really do like you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to get you to see reason. You like Nash, and Nash obviously likes you . . . a lot. You both live in the gayest city in the world, the place you’re least likely to get judged . . . what’s the problem?”
And I don’t know what it is about her-maybe it’s that I get a good vibe off of her, too-but I think she really cares, and really wants to see Nash happily paired off. With me, no less.
“Listen, you’re young-“ she rolls her eyes and gives me the finger. “No, listen: you’re young, not set in your ways. If some woman came along that caught your eye, you’d think nothing of pursuing her, would you?”
“Wouldn’t and haven’t,” she says proudly. “Back in Montreal, I knew this girl named Mallorie . . . holy God, but she was ridiculous-hot. And beautiful. Boy, did I pursue. And I got her, too. For awhile, anyway. But it wasn't meant to be.” She shrugs. "C'est la vie."
“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy for me. In my generation-“
“Oh, please! You’re what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-four.”
She blows me a raspberry. “B.F.D, man. You’re one Gen removed. And like I said, in this day and age, in this city, no one cares who you do. Or date. Or fall in love with. Or adopt a Korean orphan with.”
“That’s not the point,” I start to say, and she cuts me off with a gesture.
“Then what is the point, Dominic? Because I’m not seeing one.” She lets go of my arm to cross hers obstinately.
I do the same.
“The point, young-lady-whom-I-just-met, is . . . none of your business.”
“Only because you know there isn’t one. You’re just a chicken-shit.”
“I-no one’s ever called me that before,” I tell her, Squinting as hard as I can. She huffs, squinting back at me like someone’s disapproving mother.
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time someone did, eh? Because anyone who can’t follow his heart when it really counts is exactly that: a chicken-shit of the first water, who needs to get his act together before he loses out on something really good.”
And with that, she flounces to the door, slams it open, and disappears inside, leaving me out here with a bunch of indifferent smokers.
Coughing, I glare at each and every one of them, and start after Ariadne, wanting to have the last word, even if she-maybe-was a little bit right.
I yank the door open, more denials on my lips.
*
After what turns out to be a pretty token dressing down by Ethan, I stalk through the bar, past Todd, through the customers, to the smokers' exit.
“Hey, Nash-“ someone starts to say, as I stomp past, but I’ve already got my cigarette out and jammed in the corner of my mouth, and my lighter in my hand. No time to talk, now.
At the door, I pause to light up before swinging it open. Well, before it’s swung open from the outside.
I’m face to surprised-Angel-face with the fifth suit.
*
It’s Nash. . . .
Just who I don’t need to see, right now.
Just who I really want to see right now.
I’d wonder if Ariadne sent him out here, but not only didn’t she have the time, but he looks so startled, he obviously didn’t expect to run into me out here.
I resist the unbelievably strong urge to take the cigarette out of his mouth and replace it with my tongue. “Those’ll, uh, kill ya, ya know.”
“This, or a bus the next time I’m crossing Van Ness.” He laughs. And though he immediately removes the cigarette, he doesn’t remove the temptation. “If you don’t smoke, what’re you doing out here?”
About to chase down your out-spoken friend and deny that I’m attracted to you hardly seems like a good answer. “Uh, getting some fresh air.”
Nash looks around at all the smokers then back at me. “Mission accomplished.”
I laugh, and he grins. It makes him look all of sixteen and very suddenly I feel like a dirty, dirty old man.
But that doesn’t stop me from staring at him, or noticing that he’s staring right back at me.
“I’m on my fifteen minute break,” he says, turned shy once more and apropos of nothing. I nod, and that grin wavers a bit. “Got nothin’ to do but kill time.”
Just then I remember the guys, and the horror that is karaoke. “Ah, shit-I gotta go back in-my friends are probably wondering where I am.”
“Oh. Yeah. They are,” Nash says a bit ruefully, puffing on his cigarette and looking away. Smoke almost immediately plumes back out of his mouth. Shaking his head, he flicks the cigarette out into the night, even though it’s barely been smoked. “The British guy wanted me to let you know they’re waiting breathlessly for your return.”
He stands aside to let me go past, and I do-but as I pass, I wind up catching his gaze, and . . . Ariadne was right. Eames was right. About everything. I want him, more than I’ve wanted anyone within recent memory.
“Hey,” I say softly, uncertainly, leaning in toward him a little, and he moves closer to me. “I-I think-“
“’Scuse us,” one of two pretty blondes trills as she and her friend slink past Nash, who’s all of a sudden pressed against me.
Ostensibly to let the two ladies go by.
He’s warm, and surprisingly solid, despite being so slim, and if I’m not mistaken . . . he really, really likes me.
I don’t even realize I’ve closed my eyes till I open them and find myself staring down into his. I can feel him shivering.
“You’re really pinging my ‘dar, right now, you know.” He laughs a little, nervously, and his fingers brush my own lightly. This close, I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re lovely, dark, and deep. “Are you sure you’re straight?”
*
Angel-face sighs, but doesn’t look away, his eyes as solemn as any I’ve ever seen.
“Not so sure, anymore,” he admits quietly, taking a deep, deep breath. His fingers lace themselves with my own, and my eyes flutter shut.
I want him to kiss me . . . but not here, where people can gawk.
When I open my eyes, he’s this close to me, his lips gently puckered, and I’m this close to saying to Hell with it, and letting him.
But I think that once we kiss . . . it’s not gonna stop there.
Fuck, I won’t let it stop there.
“Wait.” I turn my face a little, catching his kiss on my cheek, shivering again at the light, wet swipe of tongue.
“Wait?” he asks, sounding uncertain again, and I look into his eyes with some serious fucking intent.
“If you can hold off till I get us a little privacy, I’ll let you do anything you want to me, on me, and in me.” This time, Angel-face is the one shivering, his eyes gone wide and pupils super-dilated. “Okay?”
“Y-yeah.”
I smirk, tugging him around the edges of the common area, toward the coatroom.
*
Like a love-struck puppy, I follow him, not caring where we go, just so long as I get to keep touching him. Even just holding his hand is like a revelation. It sets all my nerve-endings to tingling and burning in a way they never have before.
The fact that we’re two men holding hands, in a crowd of people is far less important or disturbing than the fact that there’s so much of him I haven't yet touched. . . .
I’m hard enough, now, that walking is uncomfortable. But before long, we’re at a familiar recessed counter, where a bored-looking redhead sits popping gum and flipping through a magazine. She looks up as we approach, her eyes ticking between Nash and me.
“What’s all this?” she asks, gazing meaningfully at our hands and grinning. She blows a bubble that pops loudly. Almost as loud as the smacking sounds she makes afterward.
“Tara, babe, I need the coatroom for the next ten, fifteen minutes,” Nash says hurriedly, glancing back at me with that insouciant smirk. The fire it ignites threatens to consume me.
“So it’s like that, is it?” She blows another bubble and waits for it to pop. “What’s in it for me?”
Nash glances at me again, as if for help. I shrug, and he turns back to her. “Uh . . . the satisfaction of bringing star-crossed lovers together?”
“Hah! Try again, Don Juan!”
“How about a chance to not be a bitch, for once?” Nash snaps, and I wince. And Tara looks like she’s about to say a very firm no.
“Wait-how about-“ take out my wallet. Aside from my credit cards and a few photos of Arthur and I from college, there’re exactly five singles in my billfold. “Five bucks?”
Tara snatches my wallet and rifles through the cash. She takes it out with a haughty sniff. “With a suit like that, figures you’d have more than five dollars,” she says disapprovingly.
“I have credit cards so I don’t have to carry cash.” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but I do. I snatch my wallet back and Tara flips the counter up.
“Get in here before Ethan sees you.”
“Yes!” Nash drags me past her, to a tall, narrow door. He opens it, flicking on a light. Hung on three separate circular racks are more coats than I’ve ever seen in one place.
Nash turns to grin at me.
“Shut the door, baby,” he says lowly. I do, flushing hot and blanching cold as my blood races. He steps closer, pressing himself against me again. We’re both hard, and the friction does crazy things to my brain.
“You feel nice,” Nash murmurs, taking my hands once more and leaning in to nuzzle my neck. I can’t even describe how good it feels.
“Jesus . . . you f-feel nice, too.”
“And don’t stain any of the coats, or it’s my ass!” Tara screeches through the door, making us both jump.
We stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments then laugh.
“C’mon,” Nash says, tugging me deeper into the forest of coats. At the end of the journey is a small folding table, some chairs, and a ratty-looking couch.
Now Nash looks at me expectantly. I blush and try on what I hope is a worldly smile. But it’s belied by the next words that come out of my mouth: “So . . . what happens next?”
Nash licks his lips and smirks. “I was thinking we’d start with a blowjob, and see where it goes from there.”
*
Angel-face’s eyes widen and he swallows, nodding hesitantly.
Nothing could surprise me more than when he drops to his knees.
“Baby, baby, what’re you doing?” I ask, trying not to laugh. He looks so scared and young, that I want to kiss him and hug him. Or at the very least reassure him that I meant I would be the one giving the blowjob.
At least . . . that’s what I’d meant till I saw him on his knees, his face so close to my dick.
“I, uh . . . don’t really know what I’m doing,” Angel-face says shakily, pushing up my apron. Ever helpful, I tug the damn thing over my head and toss it at the couch. Angel-face smiles up at me, and puts his hands on my waist.
Then on my belt.
Then he’s leaning forward, nuzzling my hard-on and mouthing it uncertainly through fabric and my head falls back.
A long, low groan comes from somewhere . . . and I realize: that’s me.
Even through my pants and boxers his mouth feels amazing.
“Fuuuucckk.” I look down at him. His hands are hooked in my belt and he’s still mouthing me slowly-pretty amateurly-and with increasing confidence. And it’s no wonder, considering the noises I’ve been making.
I cup his face in my hand, and when he looks up, I smile.
“Take me out,” I tell him, brushing my thumb across his perfect lips. And: “I wanna feel your mouth on me.”
Angel-face swallows again-gotta love his instincts-and nods. Without breaking gazes, he undoes my belt and my fly and hesitates for a moment . . . then he pulls my pants and boxers down carefully, without letting his hands or the fabric touch my dick.
When there’s a puddle of fabric at my feet, Angel-face finally looks at my dick. For, like, ever.
Finally, I start getting antsy, and shifting my weight from foot to foot.
“What? Don’t like what you see?” I demand, and those blue-blue eyes meet mine, and. . . .
. . . he smiles. It’s a fragile, sweet sort of smile that makes my heart beat faster.
“I think I’m kinda gay,” he says calmly. Then he leans forward and licks the tip of my cock in one long, slow rasp.
“Fuck, I think you’re kinda gay, too.” I exhale. Angel-face’s smile widens, and he goes back for more.
Another one of those groans echoes in the room.
*
It’s not anything like I thought it would be.
I’d expected-well, to not like the way he tasted, smelled, or felt, but on the contrary, he’s saltymuskyhotperfection against my tongue and in my mouth. At least until I nearly choke, trying to take him all the way in.
“Easy, baby, easy. You’re not used to sucking dick, so you gotta take it slow,” Nash soothes, running his fingers through my hair. “I’ll stay still, and you just-do whatever, okay? Whatever feels right.”
Still coughing a little, I look up at him then back down at his erection, red, and shiny with my spit.
I just had another man’s cock in my mouth and . . . not only am I not freaking out about it, I’m planning on doing it again, as soon as I catch my breath.
Or maybe a little sooner than that: I can’t seem to stop myself from kissing and licking his cock, and nuzzling the straight, dark hair at the base. I brace myself on his thigh with one hand and cup his balls with the other. I don’t know what he likes, so I just do what I like having done. I squeeze them gently and tug on them lightly.
He moans his encouragement and that makes me bolder. Makes me eager to try taking him in again, so I do. Slow, just like he’d said, humming, just like my ex-wife used to do to me.
“Fuuuck-you sure you’ve never sucked dick before?”
I hum a soft nuh-uh around half his cock. When I glance up at him, he’s gazing steadily down at me, breathing fast and hard.
Suppressing a smirk of my own, I keeps licking and sucking as best I can, taking in as much of him as my current skill level will allow. When he hits the back of my throat, I back off a bit, careful not to make the same mistake twice. But Nash groans, pinching the root of his cock between his fingers.
“Okay, you gotta stop now, baby . . . I’m gonna come and you ain’t ready to swallow.”
He says it in a gentling voice, like I’m a high-strung, nervous animal he’s trying to tame. I roll my eyes at him and hum nuh-uh again, and take him as deep as I can once more,
*
Angel-face moans around my dick and shakes his head a little, sucking harder, drool running down his chin. It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is. It so is. . . .
I wind my fingers through his hair and pull his head back till all that’s still in his mouth is the tip of my cock. He sucks on it like a it’s a Blow-Pop and it’s all I can do not to shove myself down his throat.
“Last chance,” I warn him as the familiar tingling rush shoots down my spine and through my balls. Angel-face’s eyes meet mine, all challenging and intense. So I push my cock back into his mouth, a little more than halfway, and let him do his thing. Soon enough, I feel that tight, hot, drawing-up sensation in my balls and burning at the base of my cock.
“Fuck,” I moan then I’m coming so hard it feels like I’m being turned inside out.
And I just keep coming and coming, until it feels like there’s nothing left to me but grunts and gasps.
When it’s finally over, my legs start to wobble, but Angel-face is standing up to catch me, guiding me over to the couch. He sits me down and parks it right next to me. His face is red and he’s massaging his jaw gingerly.
“You alright?” I ask, flopping a hand on his thigh. It’s still tingly and numb and pretty boneless. Angel-face looks at me and smiles, wiping his mouth a little.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughs a bit ruefully. “I’m definitely gay.”
I squeeze his arm lightly. “One blowjob doesn’t make you definitely gay. Only kinda,” I say. I’d say just about anything after an orgasm like that.
“If I really liked giving it, I think it does.” His eyes tick to mine again, thoughtful and grave. “Or maybe I’m just into you.”
I lick my lips and smirk-smirk-smirk. “You could be into me, if you want.”
Angel-face’s eyes go wide. He’s so fucking beautiful when he does that.
“You mean, uh. . . .”
I kick off my shoes, pants, and boxers, swinging my legs up onto his.
“I mean, if you’ve got a rubber, then I’ll be more than happy to broaden your education, Angel-face.”
“I-fuck. Fuck, I don’t, but-I know someone who does. Wait right here!” He jumps up, nearly dumping me on the floor, and makes for the door like every hound in Hell is after him, leaving me to scramble on the edge of the couch before finally hitting the floor with a squawk.
*
My jaw still aches and I’m out of breath when I get back to the table.
Eames isn’t there. Neither is Arthur. But Yusuf and Robert still are.
“Where the fuck is Eames?” I demand, and they look at me like I’m a madman.
“He and Arthur went to the men’s room . . . awhile ago, actually.” Robert frowns. “I should see what’s taking them so long-“
“NO!” Yusuf and I say at the same time. But Yusuf is the one who elaborates. “I think Greg and Arthur are . . . working out their differences. It’d be best to leave them to it.”
“Oh. Oh!” Robert’s wide eyes get wider as he realizes exactly what Eames and Arthur are probably doing in the bathroom. Then he grins. “Go, Arthur!”
Yusuf laughs. “Indeed. Now, what was it you needed, Dom? Perhaps I can help.”
“Uh . . . it's something I’m thinking only Eames could help me with. . . .”
“Try me.”
My face goes up in flames, but I’m desperate, and hard enough that each beat of my heart makes me want to bury my cock somewhere warm and tight.
And I know just the place.
“Look, I need a-a condom,” I whisper. Now Yusuf’s eyes are the ones that go wide. Then he’s grinning, too. But apologetically.
“Ah, there I cannot help you, my friend-“
“I can!” Robert takes out his wallet and from inside the billfold, pulls a crinkled foil packet. “Et, voila!”
Yusuf and I can only gape at him.
“What? It’s not like I’m a virgin,” Robert scoffs defensively.
Whatever he is, I could kiss him. Instead, I grab the condom and fight my way back through the crowd, almost beyond caring if they can see my erection through my pants.
When I get to the coatroom, Tara obligingly flips up the counter with a sarcastic: “Go get ‘im, Champ!”
“Thanks!”
Then I’m hurtling through the door and past the coats, the sleeves of which seem to slap me in the face with malignant will.
But it’s only seconds before I’m at the couch, and Nash-
-holy mother of God, Nash is completely naked, on his hands and knees on the couch, and smirking over his shoulder.
“I took the time to prepare myself while you were gone, so you can just climb on, slide in, and get to it.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say again, already unbuckling my belt. When my pants and shorts hit the floor, I kick them and my shoes off impatiently. I want nothing more than to get to the smooth, creamy acres of skin displayed before me; I want to feel him against me and under me, moving with me. I want inside that cute little ass more than I've wanted anything-and that includes my law degree.
Meanwhile, Nash’s eyes have locked onto my cock and he huffs out a breathless laugh.
“But I don’t think I prepared enough . . . fuck. You’ve got a monster on you, baby.” Another breathless laugh. "Good thing for you I'm such a fucking size-queen, Mr. Monster-Dick."
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard words to that effect. Frankly, my cock’s always seemed about symmetrical to the rest of me. But hearing Nash call it a ‘monster’ makes me start to believe there might be something to what my ex-girlfriends and ex-wife used to say.
So I look down at my cock, which is sticking straight up at this point. It looks the same as always: not particularly monstrous. I shrug.
“C’mon-roll that condom on and hop to!”
But Nash doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds . . . hungry. Like he wants something from me that only I can give.
No one’s ever sounded like that for me.
Bemused for the second time this evening, I roll the condom on carefully-it’s kind of too short and too tight, but it’ll have to do-and approach the couch. With each step I get more nervous.
Then I’m kneeling on the couch behind him, one arm bracketing his ribs, the other bracing myself on the of the couch. I can feel his body heat like a crazy form of skin-magnetism, drawing me closer and closer till my thighs are between his, my cock pressed against the cleft of his ass. It's the most pleasantly dizzying sensation I've ever experienced. For the first time ever, I feel like I'm the king of the world.
“What, uh-“ I ask, staring at the back of his head, which is lowered like that of a penitent. I want to touch him all over . . . make him moan and sigh. Unfortunately I have no idea how to do that other than blowing him, which I've already done. "How should I, uh-"
“Jeez, don’t tell me you’ve never done anal, before?”
“Uh-“
Nash looks over his shoulder again, surprised. “Not even with a girlfriend?”
My silence probably says it all.
Nash giggles, but I get the feeling it's not at my expense. “Oh, my God, I’m with a virgin! Wonders never cease!”
“Hey, now, I’m not a-“
“But you are, baby! I’m the first man you’ve ever sucked off, and the first man you’ll fuck!” Nash squirms back against me, till my cock is wedged firmly between the cheeks of his ass. I groan, wanting, more than anything, to be inside him. “Holy shit, that’s a rush!”
“Just tell me what to do,” I practically beg, and Nash squirms against me again, breathing hard. I put one steadying hand on his hip.
“Have you ever fucked a girl doggy-style?”
“Yeah. . . .”
“Well, it’s kind of like that, only there’s one less hole to deal with.”
I blink. “That . . . oddly enough makes sense.”
Nash arches his spine. “What can I say? I’m a freakin’ genius. Now fuck me.”
*
OW.
It’s the first thing I think as he starts to push that monster into me-slower than I expected but still too fucking fast-though I manage not to say it out loud. I just breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and will my body to relax.
“Oh . . . oh, God, you’re so tight,” he moans happily, forcing his dick a little bit deeper . . . a little bit deeper . . . inch, by agonizing inch.
If he was any other guy, Todd included, I'd have been dressed and out the door already. I like the challenge of taking a big cock, but Jesus Christ, even I have my limits. I'm starting to think Angel-face, the most perfect guy I've ever seen, let alone met, is that limit. Even with lube, it probably wouldn't have been fun taking him, but without it? Just working with my own thin fingers and spit? Fucking impossible. . . .
But I'm determined to see this through. I still want Angel-face . . . I'm just not sure I can take him the way he deserves to be taken, first time and all.
“Touch me, baby. Stroke me off,” I tell him. It’s the only thing that’s gonna slow him down and maybe turn pain into mere discomfort.
I really didn’t prepare myself enough. Not remotely. I honestly don't think I could have.
But I’ll remember for next time. Assuming there is one. And if there’s not, well, Angel-face is giving me enough dick to last the rest of my lifetime.
Sure enough, as he starts stroking me off, his thrusting slows and gentles, till he’s in as far as he’s likely to go without literally tearing me a new asshole. His hand on my dick feels good, though I'm not getting hard.
(Turns out, he’s about as good at reach-arounds as he is at dick-sucking-which isn’t very, but he’s so enthusiastic, so fucking reverent about it, I could probably get off on that alone if I weren't being skewered alive.)
I’m breathing hard, half in pain, half turned on, and unable to move because I’m too full. I need some time to get used to him. If only whoever gave him the condom had given him some lube. (And maybe the jaws of life, as well.) I’m just not used to taking guys dry, no matter how non-huge they are. “Keep stroking, but don’t move for a minute, okay?”
“Don’t think I’m gonna last a minute,” he admits, sounding both pleased and embarrassed about that. “God, I feel like a teenager. I just wanna come then fuck you again.”
At that, my muscles clench up reflexively. I can’t tell whether from anticipation or anxiety, but it makes Angel-face groan again. I open my eyes, see the ugly pattern of the couch, and close them again. I focus on being as loose as possible. My body is made of rubber, and I can stretch to accommodate even his ginormous dick.
“Just a little bit longer, baby, then you can move, okay?” I promise, too full to even breathe properly, it feels like.
“’Kay . . . ‘kay,” Angel-face says, voice cracking like the teenager he claims to feel like. He keeps stroking me off, till I’m as hard as I’m gonna get without him banging my prostate like a Salvation Army drum. But the odds of him finding my spot on his first fuck ever are slim to none.
This wouldn’t be the first time I got fucked without coming, but it'll be the most disappointing. Not that that's Angel-face's fault. “Okay, move. But go. Slowly,” I add.
There’s a light, damp sensation between my shoulder blades. I think he just kissed my back. It's a weirdly tender gesture and it takes me by surprise. I literally don't know how to respond to that. But my body apparently does: I get a little harder, and having him inside me is just a little less agonizing.
“Tell me how to make this good for you,” he murmurs on my skin, and I shiver, my body tensing a little before it relaxes a bit more. Angel-face kisses my left shoulder, then my right. “You looked so . . . beautiful when you came before. Tell me what I can do to make you look like that again.”
Wow . . . keep sweet-talking me, for starters, I think; but I say: “Before you thrust, try changing up your angles some. At least until. . . .” I trail off as he pulls out and eases his way back in again. This time, the pain is much more bearable.
“Until?”
I bow my back, clenching around him on purpose. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did last time and it makes Angel-face swear and swivel his hips experimentally. “Until I start howling like a banshee, babe.”
“Ahhhh. Will do.” Angel-face pulls out slowly, angles his thrust, and pushes back in just as slowly. This time the pain is more like extreme discomfort. The next thrust, going in at a slightly different angle, is much less extreme.
And the next one.
And the next one.
Until the pain is a lingering memory, the discomfort fading away. Through it all, Angel-face doesn’t stop stroking me, doesn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. Granted the rhythm of thrust, stroke, and words don’t even remotely match, but it still feels . . . is starting to feel kinda good.
And I dunno how he manages it, but Angel-face swipes his thumb across the tip of my cock at the same time as one of his angled thrusts hits pay-dirt. The size-queen in me finally sits up and takes notice, and I howl.
Like a banshee.
“Holy fuck,” Angel-face breathes, interrupting his flow of beautifuls and sexys. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding!”
“Oh, God, just like that, baby, just like that! Perfect-“ I gasp, closing my hand around his own to make him stroke faster, bearing down on him to keep him from pulling out, but he does, anyway. It’s pleasure and pain all rolled together in one powerhouse sensation. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. . . .”
“Shhh,” he kisses onto my back, one thumb lightly stroking my hip. “I won’t. I couldn't.”
Then he’s in me again, at that same exact angle, and I see stars. I see fireworks. Hell, I see my life flash before my eyes, and I realize the last twenty-one years I spent not being fucked by this man have been a waste.
“God, you’re so fucking good, baby, so good. . . !” I know I’m getting loud, probably loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear, but I don’t care. Angel-face is speeding up, riding my ass like a rodeo cowboy, and it feels good. More than good, it feels. . . .
“Harder-fuck me harder,” I grit out, not caring that my forehead is already hitting the arm of the couch on every thrust, or that my ass is starting to hurt again as he really puts his back into it. The world is sparkly, happy goodness, and everything else can just get fucked.
But it won’t be getting fucked as good as I am.
“Think . . . fuck, I think I’m coming-I think-“ Angel-face grunts and stops stroking me off. Both of his hands clamp down on my hips tight and he pulls me back against him. Big as he is, I can feel the pulse and throb of him anyway, but when he comes, hot and a lot, I can feel it even more, like a tuning fork hitting the key of prostate.
“Oh!” he exclaims, and keeps exclaiming it, pumping his dick-still pretty hard-in and out of me. One of the hands bruising my hips reaches around me again, takes my cock, and starts stripping the living Christ out of it, till I come for a second time, howling and shouting.
*
By the time Nash comes again, I’m soft enough to slip out of him without hurting him-I’m pretty sure I did, at the beginning-and without him even noticing.
When it’s over, I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him close through the shaking and shuddering and swearing. Till he’s just a limp puddle of waiter in my arms, and we slump down to the couch in a comfortable tangle.
After a few minutes, Nash groans almost desperately. “F-fuck, that was. . . .”
“Yeah, it really was,” I agree, laughing a little worriedly. I’ve just literally had the best orgasm of my life, and I had it with another man, on a tacky, slightly gross couch, with a whole restaurant probably listening in.
“I think you just realigned my spine.” Nash starts shifting and wriggling underneath me and I lever myself up onto my hands and knees. He struggles onto his back and looks up at me, a flushed, sweaty, unbelievably beautiful mess.
He smiles wearily-and satedly, I’d like to think-and brushes my hair out of my face. I do the same to him and he leans into my touch with a happy sigh.
“I just popped your cherry,” he informs me smugly, and I laugh again, sitting back on my heels. Nash is lounging about like he was never meant to be any way or anywhere else but fucked-out and on a dirty couch. With me.
“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” I ask him. It just kind of slips out, and he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t start that again. You don’t have to keep stroking my . . . ego, now that you’ve gotten into my pants.”
“That’s not why I was saying it.” I can't even hear the words over the renewed pounding of my heart.
Nash looks confused for a moment then he smirks again, running his finger through the spatters of come on his stomach. He puts that finger in his mouth, sucks it clean, and my cock is suddenly, keenly interested in a repeat performance. Nash’s smirk turns into that shy smile that makes him look all of sixteen. “If you want another go, all you have to do is say the word, Big Daddy, and I’ll get on my knees, my stomach, my back-my head, if you want me to.”
My cock twitches again-I haven’t had a refractory time this fast since college-with continued interest. Then I sigh, glancing down my body. My shirt and tie are askew and my jacket wrinkled. I'm missing a cufflink. My cock is still standing out enough to be visible through the tails of my shirt.
No one's ever gotten to me like this, and I'm more than a little scared of what it all means. It makes me want to run and hide somewhere. At least till I've had a chance to think. “As much as I’d like to take you up on that, I’ve only got the one cond-ah, fuck!”
“What?”
“The condom.” I pull the shredded-looking, soggy remains of the condom off me, and drop it on the floor. It hits with a soggy plap. “It broke.”
A beat goes by, and Nash snorts, closing his eyes and scratching his chest. “Well, look at it this way, Sport: at least I’m not ovulating.”
Which startles another laugh out of me, concerned though I am about . . . uh, I guess everything. Including barebacking a man I barely know.
Then Nash opens his eyes, gazing up at me serenely. When he looks into my eyes, I find it difficult to keep that concern going and even more difficult to be scared of the implications of . . . him.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m clean. I always use protection, and you’re the only guy who’s ever busted a condom on me.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, squeezing gently. “Feel free to tell me the same.”
I blush, pulling his hand to my face to kiss it. His eyes widen and his brow furrows like he's confused. As if I'm the first person to ever show him even such a small gesture of affection. “The last person I had sex with was my ex-wife. That was almost a year ago.”
“Jesus. Shit. Well, that’s good enough for me.” He sits up and stretches with a groan. “Fuck, I think you broke me, Angel-face.”
“Shit-I’m sorry, I was trying not to hurt you-“ I scramble off the couch; off of Nash, who sighs, looking aggrieved.
“It was just a joke, Handsome. You know? Funny, haha?” Nash rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I’m sore, but you’ve got a huge dick: It was to be expected. Now, help me up so we can get dressed.“
I do. Once on his feet, I get my first good look at him: he’s a few inches shorter than me, pale, and built lean. He doesn’t have much in the way of chest hair. What little there is is fine and sparse. His knees and elbows are knobby, and I can just about make out his ribs. He’s a little too thin . . . it makes me want to take him home and feed him. To see him lounge around on my couch, looking like he never belonged anywhere else.
“See something you like?” Nash executes an unsteady model spin, giving me great view of his ass. My cock twitches again, and I grin.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Nash looks surprised and confused once more, then blushes. All over.
“Right. Uh, let’s get dressed and get out of here before my manager catches us. Or before your friends start getting worried,” he says, his eyes skittering everywhere but mine. I step close to him and stare at him until he finally looks at me, wary and questioning.
“Look, whaddaya say we . . . I dunno, go out for coffee, some time-”
“’Some time’?” Nash’s eyes narrow. “Jeez. Don’t put yourself out on my account.”
I put my hands on his shoulders and pull him close. Till our foreheads are touching. “If you’d let me finish, I’d have said some time after your shift. I'd really like to get to know you better.”
Some of that wary look leaves his face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
I pull him against me in a loose embrace, swaying us to the strains of 'I Think I Love You' that are coming from the bar. “Believe me when I say that I look forward to getting to know you.”
Nash smiles uncertainly. Then he grins. Then he smirks. “Sheee-it. You’d say just about anything to get out of karaoke, wouldn’t you?”
*
In the men’s room, exactly four feet and one wall away, Greg Eames and Arthur Goldstein get to their feet.
“What did I tell you?” Eames says, pointing to the vent at which they’d been eavesdropping. “Our boy’s a five beer-queer.”
Arthur sniffs, taking out his wallet. “I suppose I’ll never hear the end of it,” he sighs, selecting two fifties and holding them out to Eames. But Eames waves him away, grinning.
“Now-now, Arthur-darling, you know good and well I don’t want your money.”
Arthur sighs again. “Well, I can’t imagine what you’d want in its place, Mr. Eames.”
“Mmm, I’m certain you can imagine.” Eames steps closer to Arthur, who for a wonder doesn’t back away. “I want to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by Dominic and his little playmate.”
“Look, Eames-“
“No, you look, Arthur. We kissed.” Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s chest and slides them up till his arms are wrapped loosely around his neck. Arthur’s own hands settle on Eames’s hips possessively, like they were never meant to be anywhere else. “You must realize I’ve been in love with you for quite some time . . . surely you don’t mean to make me wait any longer?”
Staring at Eames’s collarbone, Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Eames . . . I’m not easy to get along with. I don’t do feelings. I don’t have a sense of humor. I probably drink too much. I’m a member of the NRA, a fact that has frightened off more than a few of my lovers. I’m overly competitive. I’m a Log Cabin Republican-I voted McCain twice. Would’ve voted for him three times if he hadn’t picked Loony-Toons McJesus-Freak as his running mate. I’m allergic to cats, and I know you have one. I top exclusively. I get very jealous, very easily. In fact-“
“Arthur.” Eames interrupts, laughing and pulling Arthur close. He practically purrs when Arthur’s hands slide around to his ass and dark brown eyes meet his own wonderingly. “Shut up and kiss me, darling.”
For once, Arthur does as Eames tells him.