JUSTIN’S POV

When I stop by his office, he’s in one of those moods, one where he’s confident and energized because something’s gone well that day. The office feels relaxed; there’s almost a hum in the air as if a celebration’s going to break out any minute. I walk up to him, and he kisses me, his hand wrapped around my upper arm, pulling me to him. He asks me about my day, and I tell him. He smiles and tells me he’s glad I’m there.

We ride together to work in the mornings, an unspoken routine we’ve gotten into since I decided to use the loft as my studio. I’m always inspired when I’m there and it gives me a break from having to work from home. Over the years, the space has been totally transformed; there’s very little of Brian left, except for his bedroom which I can’t bring myself to change.

“How much longer will you be?” I ask. He tells me less than half an hour. That’s good; we’ll beat traffic on the way home. He looks nice today in his dark brown suit, dark brown shirt. Emmett and I had a long talk the other day about how Brian is one of the few men who can pull off wearing brown. Brian can pull off anything.

I sit on the couch in his office and try to read while I wait for him, but I can’t focus on my book because I’m listening to him on the phone, listening to him work with Cynthia. There’s something last minute going on; I like to listen to him negotiate.

He interrupts my ‘pretending-to-read’ daydream because he’s standing in front of me holding two different mock-ups of something he’s working on, “Which one do you like?”

The one on the left,” I answer.

“Your left or mine?”

“Mine.”

He turns to Cynthia, “Tell them to go with this one,” and I listen to her walk away, echoing down the hallway.

Mine.

It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that he’s mine. Sometimes I look at him and marvel at our relationship. He could have anyone he wants. And he knows it, too.

He tells me it’s why he has me.

The drive home becomes quiet as we get outside the city. He turns the radio off. It’s raining, and this car has the quietest windshield wipers I’ve ever heard. He keeps his eyes on the road as the rain comes down in sheets in front of us; his right hand reaches over for my leg which isn’t close enough but moving toward his hand almost magnetically. He sighs when his fingers wrap around my thigh. I smile and he smiles back. I hope he doesn’t want dinner because I don’t.

He reads my mind, “Not hungry?”

“Not really.”

We enter our house through the garage as the door goes down which means that we’re standing in the kitchen. He’s unbuttoning his sleeves as he walks to the fridge and takes out a beer. He gestures in my direction in case I want one, but I decline. He closes the refrigerator and walks out of the kitchen into the foyer, and I follow him. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, so I do, too.

He resets the alarm as I stand there, which means that we’re going to bed. The more intense his day lately, the earlier my bedtime.

I follow him up the stairs. He likes to lead.

Our bedroom is darker than usual for this time of night in mid-summer, the rain making me feel like it’s later than it is.

I ask him about his day as he undresses me, my words muffled when he pulls my red t-shirt over my head. He makes some abstract comment about my shirt, something about how many years I’ve been wearing it—as if it’s a crime that I haven’t retired it. I remind him that I like my t-shirts like I like my men—old.

He laughs and then stares me down in that way that always makes my underwear evaporate, “You are so phenomenally full of shit.”

“I know,” I say while I smile. “Can’t help it.”

And I’m forgiven, that easily, that quickly.

My attraction to Brian has many facets. There are the reasons that everyone is attracted to him—because he’s beautiful, confident, and unbelievably smart, but then there are other reasons that few understand. Brian has an intensity about him that rivals the best book you’ve ever read or the most suspenseful movie you’ve ever seen. Every moment with him feels saturated—heavy and full, almost optimized, as if there’s nothing else I should be doing…

His shirt is hanging open now, his tie hanging over the frame at the foot of the bed. I’m responsible for both of those things, yet I have no memory of doing either. He tends to employ my memory at times; it performs when he wants it to. I suppose the same is true for me.

*******************

He sits on the bed in front of me as I stand between his legs and enjoys the soft, cottony feel of my track pants, spends time just running his fingers underneath the waistband. When I was younger, I thought he was teasing me, but now I know better--he’s enjoying me. I could stand here forever.

And then he peels them down, and once they pool on the floor at my feet, he pulls me down on top of him, both of us lying back on our bed. I work quickly and quietly to divest him of the rest of his wardrobe, savoring that sound he always makes when I run my hand inside his underwear.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, pressing my palm against his cock, and I watch him close his eyes and smile as he urges my hand along the length. The room stills, and I hear nothing but the rain and him, feel nothing but the urgency building underneath his skin. There’s always something so pure and crystallizing about that moment, that quiet validation that he wants me. I’m mindful of what he gives me in that instant—the power to please him.

“I wanted to fuck you in the car,” he whispers, pulling me down to kiss me, his tongue teasing my lips. “You were so quiet.”

“Mysterious?” I ask.

“Yeah, mysterious,” he agrees, smiling.

“Maybe it’s the rain,” I offer, pushing his underwear off.

……

“Maybe it’s you.”

There’s no greater gift Brian could give me than the freedom to surrender, and I’m overly conscious of this as he rolls me onto my back. Brian’s a magician in the bedroom, and I’m perfectly content to play the ever-unsuspecting rabbit yanked out of his hat.

I’ll wait all night for whatever he has in store for me.

*******************

And I’ll be waiting awhile, apparently. He’s talking to me, playing with my hair, “I think we should go somewhere.”

“You do?”

“A vacation. Some place really warm.” He glances out the window and then finishes, “Where it doesn’t rain.”

“Why all of sudden?” I ask. It’s unlike him; it’s me who presses for these things.

“You’re going to be thirty.”

“I am,” I smile. “Hard to believe.”

“Very hard to believe,” he says, his mouth right beside my ear. He gives me goose bumps.

“Well, we can go somewhere if you want,” I tell him, “Because I’m not spending my thirtieth birthday lying in a coffin with black balloons tied to me.”

“That was completely unnecessary,” he says to me, “You know damn well that was an ambush.”

“That was drama,” I emphasize.

“The only reason I felt so horrifically old at thirty was because you weren’t even twenty.” And then he starts to molest me so I won’t respond to his dumb-ass, illogical logic. So, I let it go because I’m more in the mood to be fondled than to spar with him. The next time he speaks, I’m somehow on my stomach, enjoying his hands wrapped around my shoulders, his lips kissing their way down my back. He’s rimming me and then he stops, “You still taste like a teenager.”

“What’s a teenager taste like?” I ask him.

He answers me as if I’m an idiot for not knowing the answer, “Chicken.”

……

Duh.

“Now I am sort of hungry,” I tell him. He laughs; I can feel his breath between my legs. “And you’re being really rude…eating without me.”

“Too bad. Free buffet.”

And then somehow, amidst my laughter, he turns me over again, and I stare up into his eyes.

“You know,” he tells me, “I’ve been fucking you for thirteen years.”

“Shit.”

“Thirteen.”

“Can we not do the bad-luck-omen-superstitious thing? It’s already storming like hell and all spooky outside.”

“Boo.”

……

I start to run my hands over his chest as he hovers overtop of me, and he holds himself still and just smiles. And then before he leans down to kiss me, he whispers, “You know, I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

“I know,” I answer, and he smiles at me again with this feral grin that makes me so hard, I want to scream. His hands running along the side of my body, and when I feel his hand on my ass, I kiss him, pressing myself against him, “Please, don’t make me wait.”

*******************

“You’re so fucking hot when you’re horny,” he tells me, as I slide my fingers into his hair so I can keep him like this, his face touching mine. He kisses me in that tall, dark, mother fucking hot way he has of being way too gentle with me while at the same time letting me feel the momentum rising inside him, as if his tongue has a pulse.

When I was a kid, our family would always drive to the top of some parking deck on the fourth of July to watch the fireworks. I remember sitting on the hot hood of my father’s car, the metal burning my legs because I was wearing shorts. I didn’t care, though, because I couldn’t take my eyes off the sky. My dad would tune the car radio to whatever radio station was playing the soundtrack for the evening, and I remember my parents being affectionate with one another as Molly covered her ears because the noise was too loud.

As the light show progressed, I could always tell when they were getting close to the end. The orchestrated send offs would end, and the sky would explode with anything and everything that was left over. It would start out slow and then get more and more chaotic, and I can remember the excitement building inside me as I readied myself for the finale. I can feel that anticipation in Brian when he kisses me, when he touches me, when I know that what’s going to happen is no different than what happened last Fourth of July, but I can’t convince myself of that. It always feels brand new.

I love Brian when he’s like this, when he’s confident but not urgent, when I can see every flash of pleasure that I bring him on his face.

He rolls off of me and lays on his own pillow, like he needs to stare at the ceiling for spiritual guidance. I’m able to stop myself from crawling on top of him for all of maybe three seconds. He laughs when I resort to showering him with affection and pleading with him, “Brian.”

“Maybe we should have dinner first,” he suggests.

“No.”

……

“We haven’t finished watching that box set of classic American Westerns you got me for Christmas…”

“No.”

……

“I should see what’s wrong with the garage door, so we don’t have to park in the driveway anymore.”

“No. No. And no,” I chant into his ear. His hands are on my ass now, possessively.

Finally.

……

“You’re very recalcitrant tonight,” he observes. “Maybe it’s the rain.”

“Maybe it’s you,” I point out.

He raises his eyebrow at me, glances out the window at the rain, and then turns back to me, “No, it’s definitely you.”

*******************

And then the conversation stops.

I can feel his hands sliding right below my ass, feel his fingers wrapping around my thighs, exactly where I want them. His eyes focus on me hard, staring up at me, asking me things, telling me things, without ever saying a word. I reach between us, touching him, my hand circling both of us, pressing our cocks together. He holds me tighter while his hands set a rhythm for us, urging me to rock against him. The harder I push, the more invasive his fingers become, and I hold my breath when I feel them brush past my asshole. I’ll come in a minute if I think about how badly I want him.

And he knows it, so he spanks me.

I knew he was going to, but that never matters. It always has the same exact effect on me. I can sense everything—how hard he is, the pleasure in his voice, the way he smells when I bury my face in the crook of his neck, where I’m paradoxically hiding from something I’ve wanted all day. And then he tells me to get him off, the strict tone in his voice all a performance, window-dressing for the moment. He kisses the side of my face, and then adds, “And just me. Not you.”

My thrusts speed up as I focus on making him come, try to focus on his end game and not mine. By this time, I can no longer feel any pain as he spanks me, feeling instead this thick, repeating ecstasy that defies description. His hand covers the back of my head, holding me against him, “Get your bottom up,” he tells me.

I do, and he starts moaning in my ear. It fills the void between each slap, gives me something to focus on. I’m completely subdued now, charmed into expecting the pain, into needing it, when he stops, begins rubbing my ass and talking to me again, “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” It’s the only thing that feels real now, the only thing that convinces me I’m not dreaming.

“Don’t stop.” And I mean it, I don’t want to leave this place.

“I can always tell because you’re so fucking quiet.”

“Please, don’t stop.” (And the last three times he’s spanked me, it’s been raining, but he hasn’t made the connection.)

“It’s like you’re a ‘Meteorolog-ass’, Sunshine.” (Okay, so maybe he has.) “And my weather vane likes it very much.”

There goes the eyebrow.

I kiss him almost violently so he’ll shut up, and his subsequent orgasm comes with an announcement, “Look like we’ve got some precipitation in the South.”

……

I realize that the only way I’m going to get what I want is to play along, “And now, let’s check in with the sports guy and see if that game got rained out.”

He laughs, “Looks like halftime’s just about over.”

“Please don’t stop,” I plead with him, our bed never being a haven for pride.

*******************

He stares at me with a kind intensity that if I weren’t already partial to this aspect of our sex life, would convince me that I was born to be at his mercy. And although I’m lying on top of him at the moment, the surrender is all but complete. He conquers me so quickly, but without worthless bravado. One of his hand’s on the back of my head now, smoothing over my hair, his voice low and smooth. It’ll stay that way until long after he’s fucked me, “I want you to be a good boy for me.”

“I will.”

……

“I know you will.” I can feel my body relax, and so can he. He likes it, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the side of my face. “You always are.”

It’s been weeks since he’s paid this kind of attention to me, weeks since either of us could let a quiet car ride morph into seduction, and I’m surprised at how much I missed it. The blues in our bedroom have begun to gray as night falls, and I’m consciously aware of his body; his movements softened by shadows. He’s slipping out from under me, sitting up, and I lie beside him, listening to him, knowing what he’s doing, but preferring to let my mind pretend that I don’t.

……

“Get up, Justin.”

I feel the rush inside me that I’ve been waiting for, endorphins already running underneath my skin like a hot water spill. I respond to his voice, on my knees next to him when he kisses me. Moments later I’m bending over for him, concentrating on everything he does, watching him stroke himself, anticipating the next move he’s going to make. He reaches between my legs; I moan when he lets his fingers skim over my cock, “You’re wetter than our front yard.”

I laugh because he’s really just reminding me that I’m supposed to call somebody to clean out the gutters. “I’ll call them tomorrow.” (What’s he gonna do if I don’t? Spank me?)

I lie there on the dark gray sheets, watching his eyes as he looks at me. His hand wraps around my upper thigh, pulling it toward him, “Spread for me.”

My knees slide apart, and he spanks me hard. I brace myself, my eyes glued to my fingers in front of my face, swallowing when he stops for a second, his palm running over my bottom. He comments about how beautiful obedience is as his hand moves down my leg. It’s warm, and I hold my breath when I feel it leave me, closing my eyes when he slaps me between my legs. The whole thing is hard and fast, and I moan when he stops, snaking his hand between my legs, his hot hand wrapping around my cock.

“You’re going to come like this,” he tells me as I fuck his grip, my legs closing around his hand. Every ounce of energy that I’ve been stockpiling since we got in the car comes rushing to the surface in a battle to be released. I can’t move fast enough, every thrust I make making the next one all the more necessary. He counter-acts the sensation by softly brushing the hair out of my face as I get off, the heat from his hand triggering the point of no return for me, as I try not to think what I look like when I do this…

Rabid…

Desperate…

He makes me do the work, gives me something to push against, and then spanks me hard as I start to come, the lights behind my eyes all firing at once. I focus on the sheets for a few seconds, but I know he’s watching me…smiling at me…

*******************

“Whenever you’re ready, Sunshine,” he prods me, and I get up and straddle him, facing away, leaning forward on my hands as he lubes me and then guides me down his cock. The sounds he makes when he’s inside me always undo me, and I rock on his lap, wanting him to feel how hot my skin is against him. “Good boy,”he murmurs, his fingers spreading me apart on the down stroke. “Nice.”

I squeeze my thighs as I ride him, sitting up and leaning back against him when he’s going to come, his grip like steel around my hips. I fall against him, and he circles me in his arms, keeping me next to him…

……

I let my head rest on his shoulder, listening to the steady rain as his thumb runs down my cheek, “You wanna come again?”

I nod, pushing his right hand down my stomach and between my legs, “Yeah.”

He strokes me, and I relax and enjoy it, my fingers playing with the back of his hair, my lips kissing his neck. My body tenses for the last time when I come, and he moans when he feels me tighten. I don’t have to be looking at him to know that his eyes are closed.

……

An hour later we’ve risen, showered, and had dinner, and climb into bed for real. He wraps around me, rubbing my ass, “Hurt?”

I turn around in his arms so I can kiss him and tell him the truth, “I’ve got an ache with your name written all over it.”

“It’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow, too.”

“Just my luck.”

“Oh, it’s not just yours, Sunshine…trust me.”

I laugh and tell him I do.