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The oven-baked afternoon simmers, heat condensing in the closed pocket of the car. You flinch as you slide onto the leather seats and sear the underside of your legs. Derek jumps into the driver’s side totally unbothered. Immediately turns the air conditioning on and drums against the steering wheel, both hands, ten fingers tapping.
“Are you coming with?”
A silly question.
Because you are, of course. A whole trip just to reconnect — you’d never let him leave you behind. Besides, you love his father, even if Mr. Suarez senior seems to have skipped (or purposefully ignored), many a class on tactful conversation. And you were here to help with his very important adult favour, it’s only right to see things through until the end. Still.
You shift in your seat. Shotgun (what a privilege), gives you a pretty good vantage to watch Derek’s glowing profile, half turned towards the back as he reverses out. Mr. Suarez now, you should say. New look and new outfit and a different flavour of confidence. Something about it so enticing you’d swallowed your little laughter and nearly your own tongue, suddenly too dry, eager to taste the nuance of it.
You keep your eyes on him for the duration of the drive.
He feels the weight of your gaze. Filters it out half-successfully, chattering about your business cards and the other attendees. A breezy, buoyant conversation that circulates with the a/c and doesn’t buffer your stare at all. Turns to you at every traffic light with a questioning expression; boyish expectation that sits on his face until he cracks enough to ask.
“What is it?”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?” The lights go green and he’s facing forwards again, ever so responsible.
You consider. The sudden break of attention, the convenient opportunity. A little mischief achieved during the business lunch and you’re so tempted now to repeat it. Instead of distracting him from his driving you tilt your temple against the headrest and smile at him. “How handsome you are.”
“Oh!” He would try to catch your eyes, you think, if he weren’t so adamantly focused on the road. At least this way you’re treated to the flush that ripens on his face, that turns ember and glowing in the waning afternoon light. He looks pleased. “You think?”
“Mmhmm.” His thigh is right there, in creamy coloured khakis, the tempting shape of them so much clearer without swimming in the slick fabric of his shorts. So close you would barely have to extend. You want to touch him. “It’s hard to keep my hands off you. Please appreciate my restraint.”
He barks a laugh, titters it down into a bashful chuckle. His fingers flex on the wheel, knuckles white before release. “As much as I’m enjoying this you might have to stop. I’m considering starting to speed.”
“Oh? You’d really,” and here you drop your voice, tip it to a whisper, “break the rules for me?”
He cocks his brow, angling towards you (but only just). “What can I say? You’re kind of a bad influence.”
You can’t stop the grin from spreading on your face.
He cruises into the lot back home, pulls into condo parking without any incident (and you suspect he doesn’t quite understand how much of your self control you were really forced to apply). The two of you walk up to his apartment, jaunty, high off the afternoon’s success. The carpeted halls are becoming familiar; this textured wallpaper, the sconces, the numbers on every door. You fish the spare key out of your pocket for the first time during your visit. It’s warmed from being held against your hip, a comfortable token in your hand. You slot it easily into the lock while Derek starts to make arrangements.
And hold the door open for him, waiting. “After you.”
Then you’re both in his apartment entrance, crowding, his sun-warmed scent drawing you in like the first real day of summer. The fine hairs on his neck are backlit, sketched out in the dimness. You take a step towards him surreptitiously but. It’s not enough. Together all day during your vacation, all this time, and still it’s not enough.
“Derek,” you start. His hand is already on his phone, the glow lighting up the pads of his fingertips, each touch like the soft announcement of a firefly. He pauses. Puts his arms down, his device, and turns to furnish you with his full attention. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Do you mind if we delay going to talk to your dad for an hour-ish? There’s a situation I’d really like to take care of.” You don’t specify and he’s too polite to pry. Only considers you for a moment before readjusting, turning back to his screen to communicate the (sixty) minute alteration.
“Oh yeah, that’s no problem. An hour isn’t a huge delay.”
“Thanks, that’s a big help.”
“Of course!” He waves it off. Nothing, nothing, all these concessions and he gives them up too easily. “Go ahead and take care of it, I’m just going to go change.”
Someday, someone is going to take advantage.
He leaves the lights, letting the sunshine through those impressive wraparound windows illuminate the way. And you head down the hall together. You feel a little like a raft, being towed in his more impressive wake. Tethered at his back, nearly stepping on his heels but just deft enough to avoid it. Instead of stopping at your respective door, you follow Derek all the way to his.
He pauses, one hand on the knob. Turns to you, confused. “Is there something. . . “
You’ve always liked that about him. Sweet and far too trusting, not even looking for the trap. You’d feel bad about it maybe, but. He really should know better. He’s met Elizabeth after all, and you’ve grown up under a whole lifetime of her influence.
Still. That makes this so easy.
You move forwards, magnet-drawn, snap into him like physics. Too fast for him to parse the meaning, and really that’s more effective anyway. Your hands around his neck, fingers trilling over the baby hairs, warm palms guiding all that muscle down to meet you. The startling thrill; all that power and you can bend him when it suits.
So of course you have to kiss him.
He tips forwards at your prompting, look at that, trained in just two days, already so, so eager for it. Huffs a breath against your ear in innocent confusion when you bypass his face. Instead you launch downwards. Nose into the open neckline of his shirt, mouth meeting the cliff’s edge of his collarbone. And he’s always run warm but he heats up so fast, the skin beneath your lips just starting to sear. You trail your hands down towards his collar, grip one side and wrench it further open while your other hand starts to explore.
Over the thick ridge of his shoulder. Down his chest. Palms pressed flat, the full greedy expanse of your touch wrinkling his fancy business wear. Lower and lower still, eating up all that distance, until you hit the edge of his waistband. Grab a fistful of the fabric just above it and. Tug.
Oh and isn’t that gorgeous. A thin slice of stomach revealed for your hedonistic perusal, a beautiful cut that makes your mouth water with suspense. Your fingers dig into the sculpture of bone, press in before they flatten, before you’re crawling up beneath the fabric, hem wrinkling over your wrist, skimming up his ribs in a repeat of your lunch time misbehaviour.
Derek fumbles for his doorknob just behind him, wrist bent awkwardly, twisting and twisting until the door suddenly, finally goes.
He’s the only thing that keeps the two of you from falling. Caught off-balance but still an athlete, all those packed and lonely years turning his muscles to well-oiled, well-trained response. You make some cooing appreciation but you don’t remove your mouth.
“I thought,” he starts, then pauses for a hiss as you double down and suck. “That you had a ‘situation’ you needed to handle?”
This adorable, innocent man. You part just enough to get breath into your throat, to get your tongue back in working order so you can form your sibilants. Pull back, tipping, teeter-totter clutching at his shirt.
The green fringe of his eyes are nearly swallowed by his pupils.
“You’re the situation, Mr. Suarez.”
He chokes on air. But that’s fine.
He wasn’t going to be breathing much longer anyway.
You kiss him, part his lips with tongue and a predatory kind of excitement. Hands coming back in concert now, working together, fingers fumbling with his buttons as you keep pushing and pushing and pushing. His calves hit the edge of his bed and he goes down, graceless and easy. His hands coming up, resting on your hips, steady. Pulling.
You break your kiss and step away.
And oh, isn’t he a picture, your lovely man? Derek flushed, panting, eyes heavy lidded and searching, not yet properly pleased. His shirt flutters open around him, exposes the front of his chest; his pecs, his abs. The start of a very defined, very impressive v.
Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t end up going to the waterpark after all. That’s a family friendly place, you’re sure. And looking at him now, spread out in front of you, ready and red and waiting.
You would have gotten kicked out for public indecency before you’d even gotten wet.
Derek tilts his head, grins at you too hungry to be boyishly. “Well?” Posts his hands behind him, transitioning upwards, nearly sitting. “Is it my turn already?”
“Your turn?” You copy him, head tipped, arms crossed behind your back. “Oh no, sir. I’m the one who you contracted to attend your networking event with. And I’m afraid I didn’t come cheap.”
It’s warm in his room. No fan on, no a/c, what was supposed to be a quick in-and-out turned into real delay, and no preparation for the waiting. The fabric of your waistband chafes.
You drop your arms.
He watches you. That shock of spring green, bright, the lights in his room still not on, only the reflection of the trailing sunshine clattering in from the hallway, spilling. Devouring every movement you make in the half-glare; whatever he can see. You slide your bottoms down your legs, kick them to the corner. His eyes following them, a second’s tick, before he snaps back to your thighs.
He leans forwards.
‘A bad influence’ he’d called you. Foreshadowing in the extreme, the delicious, dramatic irony. Putting off your responsibilities again, again. He’d been so eager to make his report and now here he is, with you, letting you dull this recent afternoon’s memory.
You put one hand flat against his chest. Suggesting, and he goes. Lowers himself down, anticipation draping around his shoulders while you crawl into his lap.
“You don’t mind if I collect my reward, do you?”
“Really? I’m wounded.” His hands go back to your waist, immediate, and he holds himself up with the taut curl of his abs. You watch the flex and tensing of it, the impressive show of muscle. “You think I’d try to weasel out of a contract after the fact?”
“Of course not.” You drop into him and he doesn’t give up ground. Holding there with perfect patience while your lips drift down to meet him. “That’s exactly why I signed.”
He always kisses you a little bit like he’s surprised. A minor shock that jumps up his arms, that you feel in his grip on you (wherever he takes it), that you taste in a half-formed not-quite hitch of breath that could almost be a gasp. A full weekend already of trying to smother him with affection can’t quite erase nearly a decade of second guesses. But if certainty is a little more difficult to come by, well. You can always make up the shortfall.
You press your conviction into your kiss.
You can’t be totally sure the nuance comes across, but he sure is responsive. Wraps you up in the thick muscle of his arms and pulls you in close. Closer. You let him seam you both together, dictate the flow of your current tryst while you dedicate yourself to kissing and kissing and kissing him. Your palms roaming over the valleys of his chest, his stomach, mapping him out with precise cartography.
If you were a better artist you’d try to capture it, you think. Instead you press him into your fingers; the muscle, the shea smooth skin. Go over every plane again and again, lingering, dragging, endless repetition like that will impart permanence. One palm settling, unconscious, over his heart.
You can feel the beat of it underneath you. Quick.
But steady.
When you pull back he follows for a moment before he lets you go. So sweet, all that longing pulsing just under skin. You only shimmy in his lap; a little dance, a small excitation that you perform pressed against his thighs while you shrug your shirt off with something close to viciousness. He lifts his hands to help you and has to abort the movement halfway through. A furrow screwing between his brows when he feels that delicious friction.
Swears somehow always sound a little unexpected, when they come out of his mouth. Responsible, good-boy Derek Suarez brought to an edge beyond polite convention.
You want to hear him say it again.
“Derek,” you murmur. Your fingers are in his hair, your chest vacuum tight against his, your lips pressed against the precise sharpness of his jaw. He hums. His hands skating over your ribs, up your back. A steady, warming touch. “I thought you said you were going to get changed?”
And then, to your surprise he . . . laughs.
“Oh? Is that what this is about?” The rumble of his amusement shakes you upwards, has you arching back so you can properly see his face. He cocks an eyebrow at you, grinning, before his gaze dips down to your chest. Enjoying the new real estate now that he can actually see it. “You’re still upset that I kicked you out this afternoon before you got to enjoy the show?”
Well. Laughing with him would be too much but you can’t stop the airy puff of breath. “Yes,” you say, nails scratching at his nape. “I was very disappointed. But I was going to tell you to take off your pants for a different reason.” You lean down again, just a little, but not enough to obscure his view. “I’m afraid I’m probably going to make a mess.”
“Really?” Derek pauses, takes a moment to enjoy the promise of that implication. Fingers trailing up your arms now, over your shoulder, behind your waist. A feather-light touch that could strengthen into scaffolding with just a little prompting. “Well we wouldn’t want that.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.” You slide backwards off his lap, slowly, slowly, one palm running down his front as you force a little distance. Even still you hover, lingering. Close. “It’s the responsible thing to do, after all.”
“And we’re nothing if not responsible.” The hypocrisy of it seems to tickle. Derek grins down at you, eyes so bright, perfectly happy to follow your gently ramping pace. You flick your index against the fly of his pants and consider.
He allows himself, too often, to be directed by everyone else’s whims. You should give him an opportunity to be selfish, maybe. And soon. But. You’re the one who’s set on seducing him, and right now you have a time limit.
Luckily there’s more than one way to spoil a boyfriend.
His breath catches when your hands splay against his waistband. All this skin, what a treat, nothing between you and the pure physicality of his reactions as you work your work down beneath the fabric, press your fingers in against the hard lines of his pelvis. You dip down, close enough that every exhale puffs like a promise against his hips. And oh, would you look at that. Such a gratifying response.
One palm flashes just at the bottom of his ribs as you extract, make your way over to the innocent, unassuming button. You pop it open with two fingers, feel him statue-stiffen as you flatten the flap over his fly. Lean down, and take the pull of his zipper in your teeth.
“I can— Ah.”
The deliberate boldness of your actions chokes his impending offer of assistance. (Or something close to that, you’re pretty sure). Not that that surprises. This is the first time you’ve really gotten to get your hands all. Over. Him. So there might be an argument to be made for an approach that’s a bit more . . . delicate. But.
Well. You’ve wasted too many years on being coy about it.
It’s time to be direct.
You peel the zipper down, eager, your chin bumping against the evidence of his mutual excitement. Flick your eyes back towards his face so you can gauge his reaction. He’s breathing hard, red as a sunburn, his hands fisted desperately in the sheets right by his thighs. Making no move to stop you, blatantly holding himself back from any interference.
Very encouraging.
You ignore his pants, hook your hands into the tight fabric of his briefs, shift upwards and then.
Wait.
When he remains perfectly still you vocalize the question.
“Can I keep going?”
Derek breaks form all at once; an eggshell cracking. Nods, a little too hard, “Yes! Yeah. Please.”
And what can you do, if he’s going to ask so nicely? You jerk the fabric, pull his briefs down and his pants with them, the simmer of formless anticipation bursting suddenly as his erection springs out, thick and hot and suddenly so close to your face. Oh. Oh, lovely. You’d honestly had no real expectations for what it would be like but somehow . . . you’re entirely unsurprised.
You hollow your cheeks almost unconsciously, stretch the cavern of your mouth even while you can feel it flooding with saliva. Your jaw is going to be sore.
You maybe stare just a little too long. So long that Derek calls your name — not self-conscious, just gentle, probing. Trying to gauge whether your intent remains the same as it had been when you asked. Your lips part as your gaze blinks upwards, your tongue darting out, red and soft in the half-light, sweeping quick across your top lip. You feel the hitch of a little gasp. Splay your hands gently on the insides of his thighs and slowly, slowly. Push.
You’re starting to see a pattern here. Any brand-new stimulation and Derek freezes up, all that latent energy condensing before the inevitable release. Unfortunately, (or not, depending on your perspective), he’s firmly trapped here under the pressure of your fingertips. Nowhere to run and so you’ll have to help him find some other method to expend it.
You glide in towards the junction of his thighs. Frame him with your purlicue, your hand close but not quite touching. Enjoy the way he twitches against your skin and circle, gentle. Testing.
If he doesn’t take in some air soon, you’re kind of worried he’s going to suffocate.
“Derek?”
It takes a moment for him to find his voice. Maybe to even realize that you've spoken, despite his focus being absolute. A universe in the touch of your palm, in the sensation of his erection, in the sheer absurdity of this tableau manifesting in real life.
“Sorry,” he says softly, and even that bumps him further into your hand. Starts another stutter in his chest. “It’s just . . . The further we go I guess the less I can believe this is actually happening.”
And there. The obvious excitement, the burn of arousal, the regular expectation for what you’re doing right now is somehow eclipsed by the sincere amazement that rises in his voice. “It feels like I must be dreaming.”
“It’s real.” You press your thumb at the bottom of his shaft. Rub lightly upwards, once, just to watch him react. “But it’s definitely interesting to know that this is something you’ve dreamt about.”
“Ah.” He flushes even further, and you spare a moment to be concerned about the amount of blood that’s circulated directly to his face and the appendage in your grasp. “Wait, I mean. Well, that is what I mean, but I don’t want you to think that’s all I dreamed about. It’s just . . . I’ve always thought about you. A lot.” His voice quiets, gets softer and unexpectedly bashful (given your current positions). “You’re the one I always imagined when I thought about a hypothetical future where I was . . . with someone.”
Oh. That confession makes warmth unfurl against your spine, curl upwards, blooming in your chest. You tighten your hold slightly and he jerks. Something pearling at the slit in his head, the curve of moisture catching the scant light. And that’s just unfair. How can he be both so heart-achingly sweet and also seductive enough to make you feel like you’re going to catch fire?
You really, really want to taste him.
You take him properly in hand. Curl loosely into a fist, your fingers not quite meeting. You’d meant to start a little softly, slow, but you can scarcely help yourself. Flash in, your tongue flicking at the temptation of that dangling drop. Salt and skin.
He tenses up so hard he stills into a mountain.
Oops. Maybe you’re going too fast after all. “Is this okay?”
He takes a moment to collect himself. This close you can feel the way he’s twitching, the eagerness that’s pulsing against your palm. If it were his heartbeat it would be going too fast, his temperature skyrocketing all the way to burning. He inhales, deep, his head tipping back to the ceiling before he drops back down to face you. His brows drawn up, strangely, endearingly sweet despite the sultry grin. “It’s better than okay.”
Good. You smile at him, lick against his head in lieu of any other response. He cuts off a moan and you stop, hold him loosely on the flat of your tongue. Close your lips over him, slow, slowly, watching as he breathes. Take him up until his corona and suck just once.
Pop off when he bites down another sound.
“You can make noise, if you want.” You don’t draw back, his erection tapping lightly against your bottom lip. New sensation for every word out of your mouth, the breeze of your conversation brushing against his glans. “It’s harder to see you from down here. It would be nice to hear what you like.”
His face is soft and glowing, looking down. “If you’re the one doing it, I can’t imagine there’s going to be anything I don’t.”
And obviously no matter what that could be untrue, but it makes you flush anyway, your face going a shade so brilliant you’re glad the light is far behind you. Even if it wasn’t, here you have the advantage. You simply duck back towards him and take him in your mouth.
A little bit hasty. It’s a stretch, everything filling, Derek hitting the back of your throat, bumping your palate, and you haven’t even taken him to the base. You gag and hope he hasn’t noticed. (He’ll try to check on you for sure, and you don’t want to let him get that far away). You defer to distraction. Curl your fingers tighter, thumb stroking. Hear the effect that creates. A shaky, high sound that echoes in some space beneath your hips.
God he's just so—
There's a word for this, maybe. The emotion that he inspires, the sheer, perfect impossibility of him and the way he's letting you play him to your metre. You want to make him come apart beneath you, untense in the extreme.
You want to make him experience it like a miracle.
An adjustment: you drag your mouth back along his shaft, make up that lost distance with your palm. Index and thumb meeting your lips, following as you bob. The slick of your saliva and his precum heats up quickly under your skin. Everything sealed; suction and humidity and the scent of him almost dizzying as your nose approaches his coarse thatch of hair.
Derek gasps something that sounds like Fuck.
Oh. The profanity strikes you, inspires a kind of perfect reciprocity. Shivers over your shoulders, electricity jumping along your nerves, swooping down low into your abdomen. You’re going heady with the power you have over him, the imperfect way that you can make him sing. Pull back up to his corona, the thick obstruction of his head and. Suck. Swirl your tongue around his glans and catch his hands clenching, knuckles white, on the edges of his bed.
Why does he taste so good?
You can feel it too keenly, now. Something bubbling; a roiling, agitated anticipation. You shift on your knees, the polished wood floor sticking. You want to do so much more than this. A void opening up inside you, some empty chasm clawing and hungry and greedy. All that time and distance — days and weeks and months and ten fucking years — and now he’s right here in front of you, above you, in your mouth, letting you fill yourself with him and.
It can never be enough.
Fuck. You don't speak it out loud but the sentiment clatters down your back, your curled legs, seeks out every centimetre of skin and sets it burning. You're going to explode in some perverse act of self-immolation and you know for a fact that you will still choose to do it again. So you really can’t help being eager. You work along his shaft like this is some kind of competition, every pass filling up your senses until you’re nearly blind with him, nothing but his taste and his length and his jackrabbit heartbeat (or is that yours, maybe), blood rushing in your ears while he gasps and moans and you just barely keep yourself from suffocating.
And you were so right, God, your jaw! But it's worth it, you notice it but you can push it down, smother that discomfort with the intoxicating feeling of him stretching your mouth open and—
For some reason it looks like neither of you quite expect it when he releases down your throat.
Several jerks, pumping, and given the way it feels it would be dripping down your chin if he weren’t so deep. As it is you simply swallow and give up any hope of breathing. Attempt to take it all down as he slips out of your mouth and some of it comes out anyway, drops splattering on your chest, your thighs. You wipe up the excess with your fingers. Bring them up to your face, staring, and consider.
“Sorry! I meant to give you a warning but it ha—”
He slams into silence when you, deliberately, lick up all his cum.
And that certainly is a fun expression. If your hands were cleaner you might even go for your phone, try to capture it for your homescreen. (Well. No, you’d keep it private honestly, some place three folders deep). His expression so dazed, focus so intent on your lips that you almost miss the twitching at his pelvis.
Look at that. In every sense the ‘trained athlete’; his stamina is no joke. Half-hard still and already re-hardening. And as much as you instantly missed the feeling of him, as much as you still want . . .
Derek’s hands unclench as painfully as your jaw. The sheets at his side are wrinkled to hell — guess someone is going to have to do some laundry — and you watch as his forearms shift, muscles moving, powerful, reaching, and. You spring backwards. Stretch out, casual, all stiff and lithe and lazy. Let him appreciate your mostly-naked form as you go around picking up your clothing.
And then walk right out into the hallway.
“What—”
“What?” You turn to look over your shoulder, catch him flabbergasted, staring. His jaw actually dropping open in a way that makes you struggle to force down your amusement. Adorable. “We don’t want to keep your dad waiting.”
Funny. He loves seeing his family. So you can’t imagine what that groan is that follows you into your own room, that echoes in your head while you shower and pick out new clothes, the bass reverberation of it underscoring your laugh.
You’re at the door with your phone in hand ten minutes before he finishes changing.