Lean on Me
Title: Lean on Me
Author: Meg (Me = _sorethumb____)
Pairing: Jesse/Adam. Implied Adam/John
Summary: John’s a dickface and bolts on Adam. And who does Adam run to for comfort? That’s right, children. He has Mr. Lacey. Angst. Sex. Fluff. NC-17.
Disclaimer: I don’t know who they stick it to besides each other, mmk?
Dedication: For echoelf [thanks for the help] & inpurity [you’re my hero] because I said I’d write them something…and I was in the mood for Jesse/Adam.
After fourteen hours of inventory at the used clothing store on the other side of the city, half an hour on the train next to some creepy old woman who kept talking about knitting, and five minutes of walking the three blocks from the train station home, I’m standing in the doorway of my apartment staring at a pile of boxes.
These boxes, the two-by-two-by-two [or something like that] cardboard cubes are filled with John’s things. A few of them are still open and inside I can see the little yellow paper folders from Walgreen’s that hold his photos in one and an alarm clock and radio in another. These are John’s boxes with John’s things inside. They are labeled with permanent markers, labeled kitchen stuff and magazines and jeans. I guess this means that John is moving out.
I’ve snapped myself out of my daze and start towards the bedroom. He’s in there, packing his t-shirts away in another one of those forlorn boxes. He starts talking the minute he can feel me in the room. John is sick of me. He can’t take it anymore. I’m driving him nuts. He needs to see new people because he feels tied down. He thinks we’re based on sex and not love. John is leaving me to go back to Long Island to live with his parents because I am too bipolar. I am too emotional and too horny and too girly. John doesn’t think this can work anymore. But really, it’s not me, it’s him. He’s just not as ready for the whole gay thing as I am. He’s not sure he knows what he wants. It’s him, really. It has nothing to do with me.
I beg and I plead and I am literally on my knees in front of him begging him to give me a second chance, but my efforts are wasted. He says he’ll be sleeping on the couch and be out in the morning when his family comes to pick him up. They think I just don’t like in here, don’t tell them this is about us. Maybe you shouldn’t be here when they come. He’s embarrassed, ashamed of me. Of us.
I don’t sleep, I can’t. My eyes won’t close, not even to blink. All I see is my ceiling and a yearbook of the many faces of John Nolan running through my head. He’s snoring rather loudly in the other room, but I’ve decided to watch Fight Club and contemplate whether or not to kill him rather than try and fail at attempting to sleep/come up with more reasons for him to stay. Two and a half years never meant a thing to him.
When morning and the end of Two Weeks Notice comes along, I feel and look like shit. My hair, most of which is on the floor now after I cut it all off at four o’clock, looks ridiculous. My skin is all pale and pasty and I’ve got bags under my eyes the size of Texas. John comes in around six dripping wet hair on the floor to get a pair of shoes he left in the closet. I only know this because he mumbles something about sandals and I remember staring into the vast almost-emptiness of the left side of the walk-in closet around two-thirty. At seven-fifteen I’m still lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and he enters again to tell me his parents will be here around noon and that if I’m going to stay in the apartment to keep to the confines of my room.
But I can’t. I get up and take a shower and wash my hair and do all of those morning routine-type activities until I work up the nerve to go out into the other half of the apartment and get the balls to look at the stack of boxes again. It’s too late for breakfast by the time I’m done getting dressed and whatnot, but it’s also too early for lunch and I settle on a plate of Eggo waffles loaded down with whipped cream, syrup, and strawberries. John doesn’t pressure me to go back to the bedroom or to leave, just ignores me while I watch him pace up and down the hallway.
His parents arrive precisely at noon and I mumble a hello and act like John’s sick of the city instead of me. I carry the box of jeans down to their car that Michelle is guarding, but it’s the only thing I can manage to lift in my current emotional state and I don’t want to break my back or the rest of my heart. Apparently, Michelle knows. When I’ve shoved the box far into the trunk of the SUV, she gets out of the passenger seat and hugs me. She’s sorry, or so she says. She always wanted the best for me and she was always afraid that John was never it. I told her she was wrong and he was the best thing that ever happened to me and her face fell into a frown and she just shook her head. I’d get over it, she said. I’d move on. I don’t want to move on.
John’s boxes and duffel bags are all in the car. There’s nothing left of his in the apartment. His parents are waiting downstairs in the car. You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime, Adam they said. I tell them I will, but I am a liar. They leave the two of us upstairs to part. John hugs me and pinned my arms to the side, but I wasn’t going to hug him back anyways.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish this could have worked out.” I do, too. I tell him that and he just makes a half-assed attempt to smile at me and I tell him it’s probably for the best if he just goes now. He kisses me softly on the lips before he gives me back his key. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry, Adam.” He’s not sorry.
At seven o’clock over a plate of untouched macaroni and cheese, it all settles down on my shoulders at the same time. John is gone and he is not ever coming back. Ever is such a long time. John, the same John that I’ve been in love with since the day that I met him, the same John who told me he loved me too, the same John who said he’d never hurt me, doesn’t ever want to see me again. John must have told Jesse about this all because when I’m about to decide which bar I want to go to so that I can drink myself into the past, he shows up. He’s got a two-liter bottle of Pepsi in one hand [I was hoping it would have been vodka, but he knows better] and a quart of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the other. He says it’s comfort food and that he likes my hair.
As he closes the door behind him, I go into my bedroom and start throwing my clothes into empty boxes that John left behind. I can’t be here. Jesse follows me and stands in the doorway while I pull things out of drawers and dump them by the armful into the cardboard boxes. He asks me where I’m going. I’m going home, North Carolina, I tell him. There’s nothing here for me now. The box is full and I just grab another from the corner and head into the living room to put my DVDs and CDs inside. Jesse is still following me distantly, hanging out at the end of the hallway and watching me kneel down and throw my life into a box.
“There’s lots of stuff here for you, Adam. You’ve got a thousand reasons to stay.”
“What reasons?” I snap. “He left me, Jesse. He’s not fucking coming back. He’s everything to me.” I sink down, knees and thighs coming apart until my ass is on the floor and I’m leaning against the entertainment center. “I want to go home.” Jesse says that this is home, but this isn’t a home without John. John is not here.
Jesse comes over to me and picks me up off of the floor, pretty much dragging me over to the couch. “He’s gone, Jess,” I tell him. “Gone.” I repeat it a few times without realizing it, my voice getting softer until I just lean over onto Jesse and start crying. The tears fall from my eyes with no regard to the tear-stains, red eyes, and stuffy noses that are going to accompany them. I can’t stop them and I’m incredibly grateful that he’s the one to see me like this. Jesse understands because John left Jesse, too. But John left him for me. Jesse does not hold this against me and never has and this is why he is the perfect person to be here, holding me while I soak his striped button-down shirt through to the skin with salty tears of heartbreak and regret. He holds me tightly, the heat of his body soothing and warm. I think he knows that this is what he came here to do.
I ask Jesse why this is happening to me. He says he doesn’t know, it’s a John thing that even he doesn’t understand. A John thing. This phrase just causes the tears to keep flowing and I finally just bury my face in his chest and sob for twenty minutes while he rubs my back and whispers the same type of comfort that Michelle gave me earlier. I’ll move on. John isn’t the whole world. I can do better than him. I deserve better than him. No I don’t. I tell this to Jesse, almost shouting. He is everything, I can’t do better, I don’t want better. There isn’t anything better.
And then Jesse kisses me. He puts his hands on the side of my face and fucking kisses me. I shove him off and stare at him and then start shouting again. What’s wrong with you? Are you on drugs or something? Why the hell would you do that?
“You wouldn’t shut up,” he says. “It was the only way I could think to get you to shut up.”
Shut up? He’s telling me to shut up? I slap him. I slap him hard on the left side of his face and once my hand is over my gaping mouth, I can already see the red marks forming where my fingers seared his flesh. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. I mean it, too. I don’t throw around apologies like John.
“No, I deserved it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” He means it, too. Jesse throws like a girl.
It sounds ridiculous, but something is just coming over me and I put my hands on either side of his face and I press my lips hard against his. I can’t give an explanation for it, but I’m kissing him. He was about to say something, I think, but now I’ve got my tongue in his mouth and he isn’t kissing me back. “Oh my god,” I say as I pull away from him. “I’m gonna go pack.” I start to stand and he pulls me back down and looks me straight in the eye and asks me why on earth I would do that. “I don’t know,” I say, and I lean over and kiss him again. He kisses back this time, hesitantly at first but then finally just gives in [probably because I’ve got him pinned against the arm of the couch].
Though I wish I could stop them from doing so, my hands have begun a journey from the sides of Jesse’s face down to his belt to undo it. I pull his shirt out from his pants and begin to undo the buttons while I move my lips to his neck. He whispers that we shouldn’t be doing this, but his hands don’t move from around my waist and when my lips come back to his, he welcomes my tongue into his mouth almost urgently.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if we could move this to the bedroom?” I ask. I have no idea where this just came from. Jesse is staring at me. No, he says. No it wouldn’t. Getting up off of him, I grab him by the hand and pull him up with me and then lead him to the bedroom. When my head hits the pillow, it does not bother me that the scent of John’s cologne and hair gel still lingers there because Jesse has overrun my senses and because he is kissing me with such grace and flawlessness that I need to do this. I need him. I need Jesse Lacey like I’ve never needed or wanted him before.
I push his shirt off of his shoulders and pull his undershirt over his head, reluctantly breaking away from his kiss for a fraction of a second. He is hesitant to start undressing me, but I take his hands and put them underneath my shirt on my stomach and he pushes the thin yellow fabric [from the 80s, mind you] up my torso until I lift my arms and remove it the rest of the way. We don’t have to do this, he says. I tell him I don’t want to stop now, I can’t stop now and he leans down and kisses me hard. Am I sure? More sure than I should be. This must be his cue to undo the button and zipper and jeans because that is what he is doing while he kisses along my collarbone and down the center of my chest, muttering references to religious figures in between. Jesse pulls my pants down my legs and after he removes his own and takes my socks off of my feet, he runs his hands all the way back up my legs until his hands are partway inside the legs of my boxers, fingers gently massaging my inner thighs before he moves back up my body to kiss me again. Jesse whispers into my neck that I smell like heaven. I don’t know how he knows what heaven smells like, but this must be how it feels when you know you’re going there right before you die.
The intense desire for all of this is driving me insane. The boxers that sit low on my hips are too restricting and too hot and I want to rip them off of my legs before I die of imaginary heatstroke or my dick suffocates and falls off […it could happen] and I want to do the same to Jesse, but this is slow. This is not ready, set, fuck, this is calm, slow, sensual. We are in no rush to get this started or over and done with, it’s just happening as it happens and I don’t think that this part of me that’s saying go, go, go has any effect on my body. I [sort of] get my wish, though, because Jesse moves back down a bit to pull my Buggs Bunny boxers off and rid himself of the confines of his blue plaid ones and here we are, naked, in my and John’s bed. This is a bit scary, but at the same time I want nothing else.
His hands are on my thighs and I wonder if he can feel me trembling like a new puppy or hear me whimpering the same way. I am at his mercy - helpless, exposed, and in desperate need to feel something real. His hands are soft like they always are, baby-soft skin touching mine and the heat of a thousand lustful fires burning through my flesh with a searing sensuality that I have never experienced before. My eyes close as he touches me, sliding his hands from my hips to my knees and back up to my shoulders and face before he shifts in the bed again until his lips are aligned with mine and I can taste his minty flavor once more.
I break our kiss a moment to lean over to the other side of the bed and get the KY out of the drawer in the bedside table, and then quickly return to Jesse’s lips. My body is so ready and everything is going in slow motion while I push Jesse onto his back and straddle his thighs while pulling him back to me to sit up, all with the bottle of lubricant in hand. I lean down to kiss him so that he is preoccupied when the cold gel on my hand touches his hot skin. He jumps and bites down on my lip a little before moaning softly and continuing the kiss, finishing it with a peck on the nose before I position myself over him and he guides me down. My mouth has fallen open and my eyes won’t seem to open while I rest my head against his, pressing a few gentle kisses to his forehead and temple.
While I breathe heavily down onto his shoulder, Jesse is petting my head and rubbing the back of my neck, leaving a trail of kisses wherever his lips will reach. His arms are wrapped around my back and mine around his neck, the both of us are motionless. This is beauty at its finest. It can’t last though, I need to move, need to feel that this is not a worthless fuck, but more like making love. I am still adjusting to the feel of him while I shift my hips around to find a comfortable position in his lap and when I find it, I moan quietly, mumbling incoherencies that are supposed to come out as real sentences. My breath is erratic, heartbeat pounding and eyelids fluttering when I begin to move up and then back down, slowly at first and then quicker when it’s not enough. My back arches into him and my head tips backwards while I moan his name and sob swear words. He takes a hand off of the small of my back and puts it behind my head, thumb rubbing at the damp skin on my neck.
This is elegance, grace, and perfection that I have never known. The physicality of his hands on me, of him in front of me, inside me is overwhelming. My spine will not stay straight as his body creates an incredible friction within mine and my shoulders pull away from him and everything blurs at the edges in a slow motion film with the camera behind my eyes. His name is falling from my lips a hundred times a minute between my profanity and his prayers and both our kisses. I breathe his name against his lips twice before throwing my head back and pressing my body against his, moaning his name long and loud while I come. Continuing the move against him, I let him finish before collapsing against his shoulder to catch my breath. And we sit here, tangled together on top of the sheets in a mess of sweat and come and the heavy scent of sex.
I sigh against him, moving off of his lap to rest my exhausted body on the mattress. I use the sheet to wipe off my stomach as well as his. Jesse scoots himself down next to me and I rest my head on his shoulder. “Is this it?” he asks. No. This isn’t it. “Good.” I lean over on him and rest my head on his sweaty chest. My heart rate slows gradually and my breathing becomes less labored and I put my hand over his. “What do you want this to be?”
“Real,” I say. “I want this…us…to be real.”
Yes, this is my return.
Author: Meg (Me = _sorethumb____)
Pairing: Jesse/Adam. Implied Adam/John
Summary: John’s a dickface and bolts on Adam. And who does Adam run to for comfort? That’s right, children. He has Mr. Lacey. Angst. Sex. Fluff. NC-17.
Disclaimer: I don’t know who they stick it to besides each other, mmk?
Dedication: For echoelf [thanks for the help] & inpurity [you’re my hero] because I said I’d write them something…and I was in the mood for Jesse/Adam.
After fourteen hours of inventory at the used clothing store on the other side of the city, half an hour on the train next to some creepy old woman who kept talking about knitting, and five minutes of walking the three blocks from the train station home, I’m standing in the doorway of my apartment staring at a pile of boxes.
These boxes, the two-by-two-by-two [or something like that] cardboard cubes are filled with John’s things. A few of them are still open and inside I can see the little yellow paper folders from Walgreen’s that hold his photos in one and an alarm clock and radio in another. These are John’s boxes with John’s things inside. They are labeled with permanent markers, labeled kitchen stuff and magazines and jeans. I guess this means that John is moving out.
I’ve snapped myself out of my daze and start towards the bedroom. He’s in there, packing his t-shirts away in another one of those forlorn boxes. He starts talking the minute he can feel me in the room. John is sick of me. He can’t take it anymore. I’m driving him nuts. He needs to see new people because he feels tied down. He thinks we’re based on sex and not love. John is leaving me to go back to Long Island to live with his parents because I am too bipolar. I am too emotional and too horny and too girly. John doesn’t think this can work anymore. But really, it’s not me, it’s him. He’s just not as ready for the whole gay thing as I am. He’s not sure he knows what he wants. It’s him, really. It has nothing to do with me.
I beg and I plead and I am literally on my knees in front of him begging him to give me a second chance, but my efforts are wasted. He says he’ll be sleeping on the couch and be out in the morning when his family comes to pick him up. They think I just don’t like in here, don’t tell them this is about us. Maybe you shouldn’t be here when they come. He’s embarrassed, ashamed of me. Of us.
I don’t sleep, I can’t. My eyes won’t close, not even to blink. All I see is my ceiling and a yearbook of the many faces of John Nolan running through my head. He’s snoring rather loudly in the other room, but I’ve decided to watch Fight Club and contemplate whether or not to kill him rather than try and fail at attempting to sleep/come up with more reasons for him to stay. Two and a half years never meant a thing to him.
When morning and the end of Two Weeks Notice comes along, I feel and look like shit. My hair, most of which is on the floor now after I cut it all off at four o’clock, looks ridiculous. My skin is all pale and pasty and I’ve got bags under my eyes the size of Texas. John comes in around six dripping wet hair on the floor to get a pair of shoes he left in the closet. I only know this because he mumbles something about sandals and I remember staring into the vast almost-emptiness of the left side of the walk-in closet around two-thirty. At seven-fifteen I’m still lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and he enters again to tell me his parents will be here around noon and that if I’m going to stay in the apartment to keep to the confines of my room.
But I can’t. I get up and take a shower and wash my hair and do all of those morning routine-type activities until I work up the nerve to go out into the other half of the apartment and get the balls to look at the stack of boxes again. It’s too late for breakfast by the time I’m done getting dressed and whatnot, but it’s also too early for lunch and I settle on a plate of Eggo waffles loaded down with whipped cream, syrup, and strawberries. John doesn’t pressure me to go back to the bedroom or to leave, just ignores me while I watch him pace up and down the hallway.
His parents arrive precisely at noon and I mumble a hello and act like John’s sick of the city instead of me. I carry the box of jeans down to their car that Michelle is guarding, but it’s the only thing I can manage to lift in my current emotional state and I don’t want to break my back or the rest of my heart. Apparently, Michelle knows. When I’ve shoved the box far into the trunk of the SUV, she gets out of the passenger seat and hugs me. She’s sorry, or so she says. She always wanted the best for me and she was always afraid that John was never it. I told her she was wrong and he was the best thing that ever happened to me and her face fell into a frown and she just shook her head. I’d get over it, she said. I’d move on. I don’t want to move on.
John’s boxes and duffel bags are all in the car. There’s nothing left of his in the apartment. His parents are waiting downstairs in the car. You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime, Adam they said. I tell them I will, but I am a liar. They leave the two of us upstairs to part. John hugs me and pinned my arms to the side, but I wasn’t going to hug him back anyways.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish this could have worked out.” I do, too. I tell him that and he just makes a half-assed attempt to smile at me and I tell him it’s probably for the best if he just goes now. He kisses me softly on the lips before he gives me back his key. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry, Adam.” He’s not sorry.
At seven o’clock over a plate of untouched macaroni and cheese, it all settles down on my shoulders at the same time. John is gone and he is not ever coming back. Ever is such a long time. John, the same John that I’ve been in love with since the day that I met him, the same John who told me he loved me too, the same John who said he’d never hurt me, doesn’t ever want to see me again. John must have told Jesse about this all because when I’m about to decide which bar I want to go to so that I can drink myself into the past, he shows up. He’s got a two-liter bottle of Pepsi in one hand [I was hoping it would have been vodka, but he knows better] and a quart of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the other. He says it’s comfort food and that he likes my hair.
As he closes the door behind him, I go into my bedroom and start throwing my clothes into empty boxes that John left behind. I can’t be here. Jesse follows me and stands in the doorway while I pull things out of drawers and dump them by the armful into the cardboard boxes. He asks me where I’m going. I’m going home, North Carolina, I tell him. There’s nothing here for me now. The box is full and I just grab another from the corner and head into the living room to put my DVDs and CDs inside. Jesse is still following me distantly, hanging out at the end of the hallway and watching me kneel down and throw my life into a box.
“There’s lots of stuff here for you, Adam. You’ve got a thousand reasons to stay.”
“What reasons?” I snap. “He left me, Jesse. He’s not fucking coming back. He’s everything to me.” I sink down, knees and thighs coming apart until my ass is on the floor and I’m leaning against the entertainment center. “I want to go home.” Jesse says that this is home, but this isn’t a home without John. John is not here.
Jesse comes over to me and picks me up off of the floor, pretty much dragging me over to the couch. “He’s gone, Jess,” I tell him. “Gone.” I repeat it a few times without realizing it, my voice getting softer until I just lean over onto Jesse and start crying. The tears fall from my eyes with no regard to the tear-stains, red eyes, and stuffy noses that are going to accompany them. I can’t stop them and I’m incredibly grateful that he’s the one to see me like this. Jesse understands because John left Jesse, too. But John left him for me. Jesse does not hold this against me and never has and this is why he is the perfect person to be here, holding me while I soak his striped button-down shirt through to the skin with salty tears of heartbreak and regret. He holds me tightly, the heat of his body soothing and warm. I think he knows that this is what he came here to do.
I ask Jesse why this is happening to me. He says he doesn’t know, it’s a John thing that even he doesn’t understand. A John thing. This phrase just causes the tears to keep flowing and I finally just bury my face in his chest and sob for twenty minutes while he rubs my back and whispers the same type of comfort that Michelle gave me earlier. I’ll move on. John isn’t the whole world. I can do better than him. I deserve better than him. No I don’t. I tell this to Jesse, almost shouting. He is everything, I can’t do better, I don’t want better. There isn’t anything better.
And then Jesse kisses me. He puts his hands on the side of my face and fucking kisses me. I shove him off and stare at him and then start shouting again. What’s wrong with you? Are you on drugs or something? Why the hell would you do that?
“You wouldn’t shut up,” he says. “It was the only way I could think to get you to shut up.”
Shut up? He’s telling me to shut up? I slap him. I slap him hard on the left side of his face and once my hand is over my gaping mouth, I can already see the red marks forming where my fingers seared his flesh. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. I mean it, too. I don’t throw around apologies like John.
“No, I deserved it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” He means it, too. Jesse throws like a girl.
It sounds ridiculous, but something is just coming over me and I put my hands on either side of his face and I press my lips hard against his. I can’t give an explanation for it, but I’m kissing him. He was about to say something, I think, but now I’ve got my tongue in his mouth and he isn’t kissing me back. “Oh my god,” I say as I pull away from him. “I’m gonna go pack.” I start to stand and he pulls me back down and looks me straight in the eye and asks me why on earth I would do that. “I don’t know,” I say, and I lean over and kiss him again. He kisses back this time, hesitantly at first but then finally just gives in [probably because I’ve got him pinned against the arm of the couch].
Though I wish I could stop them from doing so, my hands have begun a journey from the sides of Jesse’s face down to his belt to undo it. I pull his shirt out from his pants and begin to undo the buttons while I move my lips to his neck. He whispers that we shouldn’t be doing this, but his hands don’t move from around my waist and when my lips come back to his, he welcomes my tongue into his mouth almost urgently.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if we could move this to the bedroom?” I ask. I have no idea where this just came from. Jesse is staring at me. No, he says. No it wouldn’t. Getting up off of him, I grab him by the hand and pull him up with me and then lead him to the bedroom. When my head hits the pillow, it does not bother me that the scent of John’s cologne and hair gel still lingers there because Jesse has overrun my senses and because he is kissing me with such grace and flawlessness that I need to do this. I need him. I need Jesse Lacey like I’ve never needed or wanted him before.
I push his shirt off of his shoulders and pull his undershirt over his head, reluctantly breaking away from his kiss for a fraction of a second. He is hesitant to start undressing me, but I take his hands and put them underneath my shirt on my stomach and he pushes the thin yellow fabric [from the 80s, mind you] up my torso until I lift my arms and remove it the rest of the way. We don’t have to do this, he says. I tell him I don’t want to stop now, I can’t stop now and he leans down and kisses me hard. Am I sure? More sure than I should be. This must be his cue to undo the button and zipper and jeans because that is what he is doing while he kisses along my collarbone and down the center of my chest, muttering references to religious figures in between. Jesse pulls my pants down my legs and after he removes his own and takes my socks off of my feet, he runs his hands all the way back up my legs until his hands are partway inside the legs of my boxers, fingers gently massaging my inner thighs before he moves back up my body to kiss me again. Jesse whispers into my neck that I smell like heaven. I don’t know how he knows what heaven smells like, but this must be how it feels when you know you’re going there right before you die.
The intense desire for all of this is driving me insane. The boxers that sit low on my hips are too restricting and too hot and I want to rip them off of my legs before I die of imaginary heatstroke or my dick suffocates and falls off […it could happen] and I want to do the same to Jesse, but this is slow. This is not ready, set, fuck, this is calm, slow, sensual. We are in no rush to get this started or over and done with, it’s just happening as it happens and I don’t think that this part of me that’s saying go, go, go has any effect on my body. I [sort of] get my wish, though, because Jesse moves back down a bit to pull my Buggs Bunny boxers off and rid himself of the confines of his blue plaid ones and here we are, naked, in my and John’s bed. This is a bit scary, but at the same time I want nothing else.
His hands are on my thighs and I wonder if he can feel me trembling like a new puppy or hear me whimpering the same way. I am at his mercy - helpless, exposed, and in desperate need to feel something real. His hands are soft like they always are, baby-soft skin touching mine and the heat of a thousand lustful fires burning through my flesh with a searing sensuality that I have never experienced before. My eyes close as he touches me, sliding his hands from my hips to my knees and back up to my shoulders and face before he shifts in the bed again until his lips are aligned with mine and I can taste his minty flavor once more.
I break our kiss a moment to lean over to the other side of the bed and get the KY out of the drawer in the bedside table, and then quickly return to Jesse’s lips. My body is so ready and everything is going in slow motion while I push Jesse onto his back and straddle his thighs while pulling him back to me to sit up, all with the bottle of lubricant in hand. I lean down to kiss him so that he is preoccupied when the cold gel on my hand touches his hot skin. He jumps and bites down on my lip a little before moaning softly and continuing the kiss, finishing it with a peck on the nose before I position myself over him and he guides me down. My mouth has fallen open and my eyes won’t seem to open while I rest my head against his, pressing a few gentle kisses to his forehead and temple.
While I breathe heavily down onto his shoulder, Jesse is petting my head and rubbing the back of my neck, leaving a trail of kisses wherever his lips will reach. His arms are wrapped around my back and mine around his neck, the both of us are motionless. This is beauty at its finest. It can’t last though, I need to move, need to feel that this is not a worthless fuck, but more like making love. I am still adjusting to the feel of him while I shift my hips around to find a comfortable position in his lap and when I find it, I moan quietly, mumbling incoherencies that are supposed to come out as real sentences. My breath is erratic, heartbeat pounding and eyelids fluttering when I begin to move up and then back down, slowly at first and then quicker when it’s not enough. My back arches into him and my head tips backwards while I moan his name and sob swear words. He takes a hand off of the small of my back and puts it behind my head, thumb rubbing at the damp skin on my neck.
This is elegance, grace, and perfection that I have never known. The physicality of his hands on me, of him in front of me, inside me is overwhelming. My spine will not stay straight as his body creates an incredible friction within mine and my shoulders pull away from him and everything blurs at the edges in a slow motion film with the camera behind my eyes. His name is falling from my lips a hundred times a minute between my profanity and his prayers and both our kisses. I breathe his name against his lips twice before throwing my head back and pressing my body against his, moaning his name long and loud while I come. Continuing the move against him, I let him finish before collapsing against his shoulder to catch my breath. And we sit here, tangled together on top of the sheets in a mess of sweat and come and the heavy scent of sex.
I sigh against him, moving off of his lap to rest my exhausted body on the mattress. I use the sheet to wipe off my stomach as well as his. Jesse scoots himself down next to me and I rest my head on his shoulder. “Is this it?” he asks. No. This isn’t it. “Good.” I lean over on him and rest my head on his sweaty chest. My heart rate slows gradually and my breathing becomes less labored and I put my hand over his. “What do you want this to be?”
“Real,” I say. “I want this…us…to be real.”
Yes, this is my return.