Shadows cast from the candles on the bedside table darkened the hollows of his neck and shoulder as he arched his head back slightly. He knelt between my legs, knees spread wide, thrusting slowly into me, slowly enough that I could feel each pulse of the engorged veins of his erection rippling against my insides, the ridge around the broad head of his penis as it tugged at the muscles of my ass.
His face was split, one side shadowed, the other candlelit, and the flames glimmered in his eye as he watched me. His expression was somber, almost sad, although I knew that he was just focused on the feel of our bodies moving together. I cupped his knees with my hands and rolled my wrists, my fingertips skimming lightly over his warm skin.
The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed. "God, you feel so good," he whispered to me, his voice deep with passion and love. His hands ran slowly up and down my thighs, from my knees to my groin, in time with his thrusting, brushing the soft hair on my legs seductively. As his hands reached my hips, he'd stroke in, pulling me tight to him, pressing deep.
Occasionally he'd stop moving and knead the muscles of my legs lovingly, his strong fingers flexing gently into me. The combination of strength and gentleness was one of the things I loved most about him and something that had drawn me to him when we first met.
He had been in the park with his sister and her children on a day I'll never forget. Sara had fallen and he'd squatted down to her, held her close to his broad chest, comforted her. I'd been reading on a nearby bench, soaking up the first really warm day of spring, and had been mesmerized by the sight of him holding the small child. She was giggling by this time, tugging at his dark beard, her small hurt forgotten. He was laughing, his teeth very white against the beard, holding her on his knee.
When he released her and stood, he glanced around the park and his eyes met mine and held. I rose from the bench as he walked toward me. My book dropped from my hand and I could feel my heart thumping at every pulse point in my body. He stopped a few feet away and just looked at me for a moment. Then he smiled slightly and held out his hand. He had large hands, the fingers well made, the nails manicured, a sprinkle of dark hair on the back of his hand. I took it in mine and raised my eyes to his again.
As our fingers tightened, the smile faded from his mouth and his other hand drew into a loose fist at his side. His eyes were green and as he looked at me they darkened slightly, roamed over my face once, then settled back on mine.
"I'm Alex," he said softly, and I knew I'd remember his voice forever. Deep and vibrant, it seeped through me and settled low in my belly, igniting a warm pool of longing.
I nodded, waiting for my voice to steady before I spoke to him for the first time. "Joshua," I said. "Your kids?" I had to know.
"Joshua," he repeated softly, rolling it on his tongue like vintage brandy. It thrilled me to hear him say my name and I shivered slightly. He watched me for another long moment, then slowly released my hand. "No, my sister's."
We turned to see them waving from the far side of the park. He lifted a hand and they got into a gray car and pulled away from the curb. He bent to retrieve my book, held it out to me, smiling slightly once more. I took it, the tips of my fingers grazing his. "How about a coffee?" he asked me as he released his hold on the book. I just nodded again, unable to speak. He seemed to understand, taking the book back from me to slide it into my backpack, then slinging it over one shoulder.
We walked through the park and he spoke lightly of his sister's family, telling me little stories, letting me recover my wits. Normally, I'm not a shy man but I was overcome by him, by the feeling his nearness generated in me. We walked closer together than strangers would, our shoulders bumping softly when our strides were opposite each other's, our swinging hands brushing occasionally. By the time we reached the coffee shop, I was chuckling with him at a mime we passed who walked backward along with us for several steps, patting his hand over his heart and rolling his eyes.
We talked for hours, over that first cup of coffee, through dinner at an Italian restaurant he knew a few blocks away, over a glass of wine at his apartment. We spoke of ourselves, our wants, our fears. Never have I revealed myself to someone so easily; it was a magic evening. For him, too, I know. I watched his eyes as he spoke to me, saw them warm when I laughed with him, the corners crinkling attractively, squeezing shut momentarily in laughter, opening again to search my face as though looking for something he'd lost and maybe found.
He began thrusting more quickly and I knew he would climax soon. I know him so well now, the feel of him, his needs, his likes. He scooped a puddle of precum off my belly, then wrapped those strong fingers around my erection and began to stroke me opposite the movement of his hips. His other hand swept up my stomach to my chest, his callused palms rough against my skin, to roll my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He knows me well, also.
He reached for my hand that first evening, twining our fingers together and pulling me closer on the couch, till my drawn up knee met his thigh. He looked down to where our legs touched and brought our joined hands to my knee so that he could stroke his thumb against my worn jeans. The slight friction of his thumb warmed me quickly and I could feel my penis responding to his touch. After a few moments, I shifted slightly to ease the pressure and his eyes dropped to my crotch, roaming over the faded denim, traveling up my body to my mouth.
I knew then that he was about to kiss me and I leaned toward him, not breathing as his lips met mine. We were barely touching, yet I could feel the soft skin of his mouth, taste the wine on his lips, feel the heat of him. He opened his mouth slightly and closed it over my bottom lip, tugging gently, his tongue tickling me a little as he slid it across my lip. I sighed into his mouth and he pulled back slightly and opened his eyes. When I opened mine, he gave me that small smile that I loved already, cupped his hand around the back of my head, then kissed me deeply, moaning softly when I sucked gently on his tongue.
We spent hours on the couch that first night, talking, kissing, touching. I moved closer still, under his arm to lean against his chest, my face in the curve of his neck. He rubbed his cheek along the side of my face, tipping my chin up now and then to kiss me. His hand swept slowly up and down my arm, squeezing gently, kneading the back of my neck occasionally.
When I slipped my hand under his t shirt and rubbed his smooth belly, tugging gently on the narrow ribbon of dark hair that curled up out of his jeans, he sucked his breath in and held it. His skin was smooth and soft, a fragile veneer over the hard muscles of his stomach and chest. He chuckled and flinched slightly, my first indication that he was a little ticklish. I touched him more firmly and the smile died, replaced with that solemn look that I was beginning to recognize as desire.
When he spoke, his voice rumbled under my ear and
made me smile. I was drunk on the smell of him - soap, sweat, sunshine - and turned to bury my nose in his t shirt. At that, he wrapped his arms around me and shifted me so that I lay against him, our chests together, our faces close. I pressed as close as I could get, feeling the jut of his hipbone in my side, the curved muscles of his shoulder under my hand.
He rubbed my back, gradually moving lower until his hand was down the back of my jeans, massaging the bundle of nerves at the base of my spine. Eventually he turned me gently and rose from the couch, bringing me with him, leading me by the hand into his bedroom, faintly illuminated by a streetlight on the corner.
We hugged for a long time, standing in the shadows near the bed, our bodies close, our crotches pressed together, hardening as we became more aroused. The magic of the day was still with us and we undressed each other slowly, pausing frequently to kiss, to explore newly bared skin with lips and hands and teeth. When we were both naked, he pushed me onto the bed, twisting, breaking my fall with his body, so that I landed partially on top of him, my leg over his, my arm across his chest. I pushed my knee gently into his crotch, shoving his testicles up to the base of his erection, putting a little pressure just beneath his balls; a place, I learned that first night, that he loved to be touched. We made love easily, as if we had been together for years instead of hours, using our hands and mouths, bringing each other to strong orgasms just a stroke apart. We smiled into each other's eyes after, in perfect harmony, already in love, I think, although neither of us said the words.
We moved my things in at the end of the month when my lease was up. We had spent every spare moment together and we didn't even discuss it; we simply made plans for our life, knowing that it would be spent together.
He watches me carefully, timing his thrusting with the movements of his hand to give me the most pleasure he can. When my testicles tighten and I begin to pant, he increases the tempo of his hand, and I convulse in a powerful orgasm that arches my hips up from the bed, has me straining into his fist. The sight and feel of my hot, thick ejaculate on his hand pushes him over and he pumps in quick, hard spasms, his head thrown back, groaning deep in his throat as he empties himself into my body. He pulses inside me, fills me, and I leak a little more onto his hand, grunting softly as he squeezes me.
When his breathing slows a little, he opens his eyes to mine, smiles at me. As he leans down to kiss me, he speaks. "I love you," he says very softly. "Remember that."
I'd really appreciate your comments - good, bad or indifferent. Thanks. qwb@san.rr.com