In the Closet (boy x boy)

8. The Moment a Rubber Band Snaps [M]

Monday, March 6th

"Didn't peg you as the bold type," Tavish mumbles against my mouth.

I squeeze his biceps, somewhat scolding. He responds by pinching the skin over my hips through my pants.

"My mistake," he tries to say but I swallow his words up.

"Shut up," I repeat the command he chucked at me earlier.

He grumbles in disapproval. I press my thigh between his legs, a gesture I wouldn't dare to admit having picked up from him. With a satiated hum, he rocks against me slowly. I feel him harden as the friction piles on. He nibbles at my bottom lip and taps my bum twice. I pull away, questioning his methods. His minty breath mingles with mine. Again, he drums his fingers against my clothed bum. I glimpse into his icy blue eyes, deeper than I would usually dare to venture. The corner of his mouth tucks and I allow myself to kiss it. He laughs, right in my face. I sullen a bit with a frown. With a crooked finger, he lowers the collar of my turtleneck for easier access. As if to erase the harm he has done to the area, he buries his face into my neck and nips at the skin there. I jolt, hands reaching his toned shoulders to properly hold on. When he reaches a particularly ticklish spot and laps at it, a moan escapes from my gaping lips. He has the audacity to laugh against my skin. His fingers tap again.

"What?" I snap, irritated, confused and admittedly frustrated.

"Oh, for fuck's sake— What's your name again?" His curious doe eyes ressemble those of a pleading puppy. I notice shrinking bold strokes of deep blue atop clear ice, a yellow rim consumed as his pupils blow wide.

"Billy."

"Er..." As he's about to speak, because I want to and because I can, I slide my fingers under the hem of his towel, exploring the span of skin over his hipbone. Then I flick his towel off and he doesn't seem to mind too much.

Shamelessly, I glide my gaze down his body. His stomach tightens to the rythm of his breaths. I pass a hand over the area. Tavish fondles my bum harder. My hand lowers and lowers until it dangerously nears his growing erection.

"Billy," he calls, pulling back, and I blink at him, frozen. I have never heard anyone say my name that way, as if it couldn't be contained in their mouths any longer. As if there was a real urge, a real stress. As if I mattered so much, right here, right now. I can't believe someone could say my name for the first time and effortlessly pour such intensity into it. Tavish McCloud is a pro, I would almost believe he desires me nearly as much as I desire him.

His fingers pat my bum another time and I glare at him. He full-on folds in laughter, dumbly butt-naked yet ever so attractive.

"What?" I ask, finally cracking into an amused smile. He inches close to me again, regaining some seriousness.

"Jump, idiot." He motions me to hop and I, at last, get the message.

He clings to my thighs with his hands, gripping firmly, and a sheepish giggle bubbles in my chest. In a matter of seconds, I'm set down on a drawer, crashing into whatever was displayed atop it. Tavish doesn't seem to care. Neither do I. Our lips meet against, tongue caressing just enough to taste the other. The smell of Tavish's perfume, Tavish's skin, Tavish's naked body drives me delirious. I unleash my hands, allow them to freely wander across the ocean of muscles stretching across Tavish's broad back. Tavish rams foward into me so our middles meet. I groan. My pants, more and more, feel tighter than intended. I answer with the same eagerness, crossing my ankles behind him and pressing into him.

We're close, so close we might share the same air, the same saliva, the same blind lust. This feels nothing like my dream. We have all the time in the world, yet we're in such a hurry. We loathe each other, yet a complicity reunites us. I realize, fingers dug into lean muscle, that we're not in love and that's the real difference. He treads his finger through my hair and just strokes, slowly, gently. I melt into him. His kisses grow wetter, messier, sluggisher. He doesn't devour me anymore, he relishes me, my touch and my body. I rock against him. My body feels like it's boiling inside out. My clothes are too tight and too much and too there. The air is too warm and too humid and too filled with Tavish. And Tavish, he's too kind and too skilled and too fucking sensual.

As I'm about to combust, he tugs my hair back in an effort to separate us. My mouth naturally reaches for him, neck extended forward. I see in his eyes the struggle of restraint, of moderation. He doesn't have long before I upset myself with the separation and he seems to sense it because he offers me a charming grin.

"This doesn't seem much fair," he says, finger pointing at my body.

My eyes follow his finger, than trail back to him. He's fully naked, I'm fully clothed. I concede with a raise of my eyebrows. That's all it takes for him to lunge at me, tugging my turtleneck off me. My chest heaves, his heated gaze presses against my lungs. He has kissed me utterly breathless. He gawks at my body shamelessly as I did earlier, shoulders to waist to stomach. The Tavish from an half-hour ago would have piqued my insecurity with remarks and scowls. The Tavish of now, still nothing compared to the one of my dream, is far gentler to my tattered heart. My eyes close in delight. His hands glide across my bare skin smoothly, like they belong there. He's careful, treats me delicately. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. His touch tingles. I want so much more than I can have or take.

Once he's done feeling all the newly exposed skin I offered him, he hums and reaps my instant full attention. Eyes meeting, breaths uneven, cheeks flushed. We assimilate each other in silence. Again, he laughs. It's sweet when it breaches into the haze that fogs my brain.

"Talk about unexpected," Tavish slurs, thoroughly amused.

I tilt my head, playful and a bit tipsy on it all, desire and limitless pleasure.

"And here I thought you weren't gay," he reflects out loud and it's nothing.

It should be nothing. I should yank him close and kiss him as breathless as he kissed me. I should touch him and he should touch me back. I should accept how much I require this, enjoy this. We should get it over with, sleep together and wake up with a lot to unload. We should talk it through because liking guys isn't a big deal. But I can't. And what he said, it's undeniably something.

"I'm not," I argue, eyes now narrowed warily.

Tavish blinks. "Huh?"

I become better aware of my discarded shirt, stained pants, undeniable erection. I'm a mess, the kind of mess I shouldn't allow myself to be. I hop off the drawer and lose my balance. Tavish steadies me, a warm hand against my back. I flinch and cower away from his intoxicating touch. This can't happen again. Ever.

"I'm... not." My shirt is back over my head and hiding my body away from Tavish.

I dust myself off, straighten everything that can be straightened. I ruffle my hair back into a controlled lump.

Tavish tries to place a hand on my shoulder but I don't want him to.

He doesn't understand. "I don't—" I shake my head at him to discourage him from speaking more.

The door is at arms length by now. I could just leave. I need to speak to him first, to make him understand this.

"Let's never..." Meet, touch, see eachother, "again," I mutter and leave the room.

I race against myself through the corridors, into the stairway. Confusion and its many faces muddles in my mind. I sort and arrange the thoughts neatly:

— I hate myself for letting him touch me.
— I hate Tavish for touching me.
— I hate myself for wanting him to touch me.
— I hate Tavish for ever wanting to touch me.
— I hate myself for staying instead of running away.
— I hate Tavish for welcoming my presence.
— I hate myself for obsessing over those damned nice hands.
— I hate Tavish for having such nice hands.
— I hate my body for reacting so delightfully.
— I hate Tavish for being that good.
— I hate myself for itching with every inch of my body to return there and finish what I started.
— I hate Tavish for allowing me to explore him and explore myself.
— I hate myself for feeling like this mattered at all.
— I hate Tavish for treating this like it was so genuine but trivial.
— I hate myself for lusting after Tavish.
— I hate Tavish for somewhat lusting after me in return.

My list is interrupted by my arrival down stairs. My constellation of thoughts boils down to one single fact: I hate that I have never felt so great in years and that Tavish's skin acted as my lifeline for half a night. I reach the kitchen hurriedly. I need to get away.

Aqua is slumped over the island, snoozing. Her face is buried in the crease of her elbow and her long hair cascades into rivers of flawless ginger, flooding the countertop. Her dog sits straight, at her feet, guarding her better than it appears I can guard myself.