Page 43 of Poetry On Ice
“Close your eyes,” I say eventually. “Get some sleep.”
“No.”
No?
What is it with this guy? Did he miss an entire chapter of theHow to Behaveguidebook?
“You can’t just say no to something like that,” I explain, trying my best not to allow my exasperation to show. “You have to give a reason, or you come across as unreasonable.”
“I have a reason,” he says quietly.
When he doesn’t expand, I prompt, “Well, would you care to share it with the class?”
He rolls over, an untidy three-point turn that causes the whole bed to rock. It’s dark, but he’s facing me. I know because of the soft blast of his breath against mybeard. He nestles his head into the pillow, my pillow, inching his face so close to mine I’m forced to turn my face to look up at the ceiling. It does nothing to stop him. He leans in even closer, cupping his hand over his mouth like he’s telling me a secret.
“My hole feels different,” he whispers into my ear.
A lump of concern gets stuck in my throat and the urge to wrap an arm around him and pull him close is almost overwhelming. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m not hurt. My hole just feels weird.” The sheets rustle as he dips an arm under them. I can tell he’s reaching down. Back. Stroking the part of his body I just fucked open. My dick, which is still oversensitive and tingling, starts to swell again. “Feels smooth where it’s usually wrinkled. My ring feels a little puffy and open like it hasn’t gone back to normal yet.”
The way he’s talking is getting under my skin. There’s something so terrifyingly vulnerable about it that it makes me lightheaded. I’ve been with lots of guys. Guys that have been with guys before and guys that haven’t. I’ve never been with anyone like this though. Someone so open, so honest. So fucking talkative.
It’s messing with me.
“It’ll go back,” I murmur.
“D’you swear?”
“Yeah, I swear.”
“What about my chest?”
“What’s wrong with your chest?” I ask, even though a quiet voice in my head warns me not to.
“Feels like I have a big hole in my chest. Like there was something there before, keeping me together, that isn’t there now. I feel…undone. Like my heart is open.” With that, he throws an arm around me and burrows his face into the space between my neck and shoulder. “Will that go back to normal too?”
“Yeah,” I say, letting my arm snake around his waist and sighing helplessly as my hand moves of its own accord, following the line of his spine past his tailbone and even lower. I stroke his hole with the pad of my middle finger. I do it as gently as I’ve ever done anything.
He’s right. It does feel a little smoother than usual. Puffier too.
He inhales sharply when I touch him and lets out a long, low moan that gets into my blood stream and works around my body in a way that leaves me in no doubt whatsoever that something concerning is going on with my heart as well.
He throws a leg over me, crooking it at the knee, forcing my body to meld against his.
“D’you need anything? Advil or something?” I ask, trying to think of a way to get myself a little distance and some air. He keeps his grip on me firm and shakes his head, nose and lips rubbing against the sensitive skin over my jugular. “You gonna go to sleep then?”
He shakes his head again and says, “No. Not till you tell me a story.”
“I don’t know any stories.”
“Sure you do.”
Post-nut exhaustion is heavy and doing its damnedest to pull me under. On top of that, I’m fighting full-bodied panic over being buried under a guy I just fucked. I’m currently participating in an activity that can best be described as cuddling. And on top of that, we’re talking a lot more than I consider ideal.
Despite all that, I hear myself say, “Fine, what story do you want me to tell you?”
“Tell me the story about the first time you went skating.”