C'mon angel my hearts on fire

Don't deny your man's desire

You'd be a fool to stop this tide

Spread your wings and let me come inside

We walk to the bedroom. He’s pulling me, but I'm cooperating. I'm tired much earlier these days now. I stop at my nightstand to remove my watch, empty my pockets, my nightly ritual. He sits on the bed with his legs tucked under him, just watching me, with that eager face and those trusting blue eyes that never change. I start to loosen my tie and he tells me to stop, to sit down on the bed, to let him do it. So I do.

I look down at his slight fingers as he slowly unbuttons my sleeves, one and then the other and then moves his attention to my tie. He unravels it slowly, looking into my face the entire time. I want to touch him, to speed this up, but I can tell that's not what he wants, so I don’t. My tie is loosened and his warm hand moves inside my dress shirt and begins unbuttoning it. I keep my head lowered and try to stay quiet and calm as I listen to the sound of his breathing and feel his warm breath on my neck and chest. He's leaning into me and kissing me so gently that I feel wrong to act on the instincts I have right now-to roll him over and fuck him hard.

Eventually, though, I lean forward, pushing into his kiss, thoughts of tasting him crowding out every other thought in my mind.

I think I hear Pat Benatar? Love is a battlefield?

He stops me with a hand to my chest.

“Brian, that’s my cell.”

“Fuck it.”

“That’s Mel or Linds. Stop.” He moves out from under me, ignoring my frustration. I watch him cross the loft to his jacket to silence the annoying ring. He has one for everybody; Justin and his details. I hear him talking to Lindsay.

“No, he’s here. His cell must be off. Hang on.” I'm already in the kitchen with him, taking the phone.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I'm short with her, but concerned.

“Nothing,” she says. “You were supposed to call me to let me know when you guys were going to come see our new place and you didn’t—that’s all. And then I tried to call your cell and your loft and no answer. I just got…“ she pauses…”I guess I just got impatient or something. That’s all.”

“Sorry. Ringer must be off. I forgot to call. Justin told me about your new place. I can probably come tomorrow sometime. You guys are settled in?”

I can hear Gus raising hell in the background and the real reason for the call in Lindsay’s voice. It's been two days since I told her about the cancer. Two days since she yelled, slapped me, and then cried—for me and for her. Two days since we both realized what all of this means if she and Mel are really splitting up. I wanted to tell her at a time that wasn’t like this, when she wasn’t breaking up with her partner, but things don’t always work out like that. I told her that I was going to play a bigger role in Gus’ life and that I was going to change my life insurance policies and my will. It’s been two days since she calls every few hours or so for some reason or another. She's speaking to me again.

“I don’t just want you to come. I want Justin to come to.” Her voice sounds lonely. It makes me uncomfortable.  

“Okay, we’ll both come.” I agree as I lean back against the kitchen counter and reach to open the refrigerator. My eyes stop on the picture that Gus drew today.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Justin and I are getting ready to go out.” I lie, tell her goodbye and pull Gus’ picture off of the refrigerator. My kid cannot draw for shit. Lindsay had graciously written what he was trying to draw next to each scribble on the page. “Mommy, daddy, mommy, car, baby, and Justin.” I fold the picture in half and put it on my desk. I don’t want it on my refrigerator anymore.

I don’t want any of this on my refrigerator anymore. I want my life back. I want my Thursday nights back. I don’t want all of these new roles, all of this bullshit under my name, beside my name, anywhere near my fucking name. I want to walk into Babylon alone, drown in the beat, the smell, and own the back room. I want to know that when I glance at someone, his night has just gone from shit to memorable—that when I choose him, he won’t be sorry. I was. I was always sorry—almost always.

I return to the bedroom with a bottle of water for Justin and a bottle of Scotch for me. I know how to alter my mood. Justin's tucked under the covers, his nose stuck in a book.

“You’re reading?”

“Yeah and I’m freezing. You keep it so fucking cold in here Brian.”

“It matches my personality.” I hand him the bottles and finish undressing. He watches me, drinking the Scotch.

“I love watching you undress and fuss with your clothes Brian. Watching you, standing there, naked and anal, is so fucking cute. It drives me nuts.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You get this serious look on your face,” he’s laughing and imitating me a little, “almost as serious as when you’re working, except you’re naked.” More giggling.

“You ought to show a little more respect, Sunshine. After all, you are in the Holy Land right now. Your long journey through the desert on your camel has finally brought you here.” Justin lets you fuck with all of him. It’s his way of being charming. I hang the rest of my suit in the closet before turning around to look at him. I’m trying not to smile—really, really, trying--but it’s almost pointless.

He leans his open book towards me. “I know. I was just reading about my journey in this sacred text. Apparently it took me some twenty years to get here and not one good woman along the way. Really amazing story.” He plays with me.

“Excuse me, one woman.”

He corrects himself, flipping pages. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It says so right here. In the ancient city of Babylon, our weary traveler befriends a young maiden named Daphne one evening in order to secure safe passage through Lesbitamia for the next two years.”

Now I’m laughing. “Lesbitamia? Well, now that you have arrived safely into the kingdom, what’s first on your list of things to do?”

“I think I will go seek counsel from the three wise men: Armani, Prada, and Gucci. They will advise me about the next leg of my journey.” He's way too into this now. I have to end this or he will play with me all night.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” I slide into bed, under the covers.

“Why not?” He turns on his side so that we're facing each other.

“The king has thrown them in prison for selling their wares in the streets without a permit.”

“He’s a lonely, old, narcissistic tyrant. But I hear he’s reeeall—ly hot,” he's talking to me in his teasing voice, walking two fingers up my chest, and kissing me in between every word. “I will go to him and beg for their release.”

“The king does not allow visitors.” I try to suck on his bottom lip.

“Oh, he’ll see me.”

“What makes you so sure? The king hasn’t entertained a peasant in years.” I kiss him again.

“I have something that he wants, something that he needs,” his hands are behind my head, his fingers in my hair. He's kissing me urgently, his tongue pushing into my mouth. He moves like he has something to prove. Not to me. I return the favor. After awhile we stop kissing to breathe and just look at each other for few seconds. I become aware of my body again.

I badger him about how many blankets we’re under, how he’s not sleeping in the king’s clothes, but then I lift up the covers so I can see him better. His body's so, well, irresistible like this. My gray knit shirt is long on him. It stops right below his hips, clinging to him like I want to right now. Every part of him looking as innocent as he did the first night he was here. Every part of me knowing that he’s not. It is then that I notice that my shirt is all that he has on.

“Wait.” I stop him from undressing. He smiles at me, reaching to put his book on the nightstand behind him.

“Leave it on?”

“Leave it on.” I tell him.

“Still cold?” I ask, offering him some more Scotch.

“Not really,” he answers, drinking a long swallow and looking at me without blinking. He gives it back to me. I drink some more and put it down. I don’t need it anymore. I move in closer to him. I'm starting to sweat under all of these blankets, but I could care less right now. I prop myself on my elbow and look at him for a second. I feel his fingers behind my ear, pulling my face in, our lips pushing together. I close my eyes. I kiss him for days—his intensity matching mine and always upping the stakes. He's no novice; he never was.

I can feel his legs fighting with me, arguing with mine, trying to pull my body on top of his—the urgency in his timeline. I fight back, above him,but not on top. His frustration pushes through.

“Brian, come on,” he urges. He's sweaty too. It makes me smile.

“Be patient,” I whisper in his neck. “You’ll get what you want, Sunshine.” I say it even softer as I reach back to throw one of the blankets off the bed. We're both too hot. He sighs a little.

“I’ve changed my mind. Take this off.” I pull at my shirt to help him. It is damp with sweat and caught underneath me, and we struggle to get it off, laughing in our efforts. Once it's gone, I pull him back close to me, as we were, and tuck us almost totally under the covers. I whisper to him again.

“Come here.”

“I am here.”

“Come here.” He inches his warm body closer to me.  I run the back of my hand down the side of his face, over his ear, down his neck, his arm, his chest.  He shivers a little.  My lips touch his eyes, his cheek, his nose and his chin.   My eyes stay wide open as a quiet smile rests on my face.  I move my warm hand down his chest.  His goose bumps come and go as his hips move toward me.

I place the heel of my hand on his stomach and slowly move down to his legs, letting my fingers walk around his pubic area, my face buried in his neck.  His moaning breaks my concentration, “Brian, please, pleeease.  I can't take this."  He's pushing his hips toward me, his hand pushing my hand toward his cock.  "Please."

But I want this slow. I like this slow.  It's almost always so fast, so rushed.  I reassure him, "You’re okay. I’ve got you.” I take my hand out of his and slide it down to his inner thigh, gently but firmly, listening to his breathing to guide me.  He's alternating between shallow breaths and an occasional moan that goes straight between my legs. I want him to know what this feels like for me.

“Do you like this?”

“Yes.” It's a desperate answer.

“Tell me what you like.”

“I like this. I like you touching me….I like …I can’t…Brian please..."

“Tell me.” He purrs at the sounds of my voice.  He wriggles in my arms, but he can't go anywhere.

“I don’t know what to do with my hand," he spits out, exasperated.  I laugh a little, by accident.  He can always surprise me.

“Don’t laugh at me.” I don’t mean to embarrass him. I take his stray hand and tuck it underneath the pillow, underneath his head for now. I raise up a little, my very stiff cock falling on his stomach. He doesn’t like that or seem to like that or something. He is frustrated. His descending hand comes back to my chest, my stomach. His words come back to my ear.

“I want to touch you. I want to suck you. Mmmmm……now……Brian……now.”

It’s hard to believe that two weeks ago I was worried about being able to do this at all. Tonight I’m feeling like I can’t hold back. I want to tell him, to show that him that just having him underneath me, in my arms, is often more than I can stand. I stop his hand before he wraps it around my cock. He's close enough to know that I'm already wet. I put my mouth over his to try kissing him and telling him at the same time to let me drive. I plant his hand on the back of my head.

“You made dinner. Just…let…me…entertain…you, okay?” I was pushing my lips into his face. Kissing him is almost better than fucking him sometimes.

“Okay, fine. I’ll just lay here and look pretty.” I don’t want him to talk if he’s going to be a smart ass.

“Ssshhh,” I put my finger over his lips to quiet him. "When I hold you like this, Justin, look at you, touch you like this, ...." I pause, "I want you to listen to me.  Are you listening?"  He nods. “In a few minutes, I’m going to be inside you and I want you to be ready for me.  Can you do that?  Can you be ready for me?"  He opens his eyes and looks at me, almost searching my face.  I kiss him before he can answer.

I pop the lube open with my free hand, emptying only a small amount into my palm.  My hand disappears under the blankets.  My lips are next to his ear.“Are you ready?” I ask him. The back of my fingers run down his chest, tracking the outline of his cock, his balls, tickling his inner thigh.

He breathes “I want you” so softly into my ear that I almost don't hear it.

My warm, slippery fingers tease and then ignore the entrance to his hole as lightly as a I can and hear him suck in air, or rather, anticipation.

“Spread your legs, Sunshine.” A loud moan escapes as he starts to spread his legs for me.

“That’s far enough.” I stop him with my leg over his—to keep him from running a touchdown on my play.

I slide my middle finger part way in as I tighten my hold around the upper part of his body. I have all of him now. I feel his muscles tighten around my hand. As I slide farther in, I feel him pushing, still trying to get ever closer to me. He moans and rotates his hips to meet my hand.  I slowly back out and re-enter him with more, moving in and out of him slowly, listening to the sounds our bodies make, pressing where I know he can’t tolerate for long, talking to him about what's happening, “Justin, do you like this? Do you like it when I touch you like this?"

“Yes. Please, Brian. Christ, please.” I almost can’t understand him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” I ask him as I thrust my fingers farther inside his ass. It almost makes me feel cruel to ask, but it's making me really hard.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

His voice wavers back and forth, “Yes, I want you to fuck me.” His eyes are wet and fixed, frozen somewhere between desire and satisfaction.

I want to be inside him so bad. My slippery fingers leave him to fumble with the condom. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion or something.

“Roll over.”

He steals a quick glance at me before he rolls over. I glide on top of him, letting him feel the weight of my body as it covers him, the steel of my erection as it slides between his cheeks and hovers outside his hole. I pull myself up a little and adjust myself for him, find my center of gravity, and push.

Everything. I watch as it falls over the edge. I tighten my grip on his hips, pushing harder, feeling him tightening around me, pulling me in. It makes me groan, makes me make that sound I make lately when I have to climb the stairs because the elevator is down. I pull back, my last controlled thrust, and fill him again. I close my eyes for a minute to feel this warmth, this heat, this rush, this swirl I get sucked into every time I fuck him. Every single time.

I open my eyes and I see him reaching for himself, hear him panting, watch him start fisting himself, feel his stomach muscles start to constrict.

“Don’t.” I swat his hand away. He mews frustration at me. My hand covers his cock and I match the rhythm of our bodies. I feel him start to shoot right before my release arrives. I'm never ever letting go of this….this shiny, loud, cozy, razor-sharp, buttery piece of everything. It's over in less than a minute, I think. I collapse on top of him. Soaking in the sheepish smile he wears after sex. I wish I had a camera…right…this…second. He wiggles out from under me. I ditch the condom and turn to look at him. I think he’s crying.

“That was too much? Too fast? I hurt you?” I search his face, not sure of what I’m seeing.

“No, intense. It’s happened before you know. You just don’t see it. You’re asleep.” He's saying these words softly, but warmly, without looking at me. I don’t push him. A few minutes pass with only our breathing to fill the room. I want to tell him that he's wrong; I'm not asleep. But I don’t.

When he does speak again, he changes the subject., “I can’t believe that Mel and Linds are splitting up. And because she fucked some guy? Jesus, I’m getting the impression that they haven’t even really talked about it.” This is what he wants to talk about.

“Sometimes people grow apart, I guess.”

I don’t want to talk about this. He turns to his side, away from me, looking out the window. I slide in behind him, holding him. Our bodies are still sticky with sweat and cum, and he pulls the blankets back up. I’m roasting again, but I don’t care. I run my fingers over his arm, kiss the back of his neck. He nuzzles back against me, starting to get comfortable for the night. I ask again, my hand on his hip, my words in his neck, “Are you sure you’re all right? I feel like I’ve hurt you.” He lets me know that he’s okay in a way that only he can, a way that doesn’t require any words. He moans a little and continues to push back against me. As long as I live, I’ll never be able to break the spell that's cast over us right before, during, and after sex. As long as I live.

I just want to stay like this. I want to stay stuck to him in this sticky way. I lie there looking at the back of his head, remembering how I used to feel like he was a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe. I almost start laughing. That’s the thing about Justin, he’s so damn sticky. And I chewa helluva lot gum. That’s the thing about me. Fuck. Nevermind.

My hand roams to his. I cover it with mine. We're not speaking, but we are. He scratches the back of his head three times and I know he’s settling down. And once he finally turns his pillow the
way he wants it, sets the alarm, and turns the clock backwards, he leans back against me and picks up his conversation right where he left off:

“So, it’s really true then? That’s crazy, Brian. What about Gus? You’re telling me that Lindsay's leaving, make that left, the one person she loves more than anyone in the world without even really talking about it?”

“I guess so, Justin. When are you?”