Life As We Know It

A/N: This was written in late spring/early summer of 2008, hence certain news references. Yes, gasoline DID get up over four dollars for regular unleaded here in California. I was paying almost $50 at the pump, good lord. Thank goodness I got good mileage out of that. That has little to do with the story, though. c:


The elevated train has a particular rattle to it. It’s hollow, regular, and doesn’t sound, how should I say… claustrophobic, like the subways always did when I was in college. I can see the ghost of my reflection in the tinted windows, a man-shaped greyness against the muted blue of the sky. I scowl at myself. I look so goddamned corporate in my suit and tie. J. Crew, good god! How the hell did the terms “relaxed-fit” and “chinos” get into my vocabulary, and worse, my closet? What happened to my ripped jeans and Dr. Martens, my plaids and flannels and cassette tapes? Shit, how did I get to 28 without even realizing?

I suddenly remember a song my father would sing when he was halfway to smashed: “Margaritaville”, appropriately. I don’t even like Jimmy Buffet. Father got really addicted to that song (and margaritas) after Mom ran off with her dance instructor, especially that line, “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know… it’s nobody’s fault”. I think the reason that suddenly came to mind is because I was about to blame my ex for all the laments I’d been musing over. Ethan got me the job that forced me into this monkey suit, and Ethan filled the last six years, so I went from 22 (young, hip, just out of college) to 28 (almost 30, almost ‘old’, and totally out-of-style) without having noticed. It all came crashing down on my head when he suddenly up and left (I suspect another dance instructor is somehow involved, despite the fact that Ethan never took dance classes) and the veneer of contentment was suddenly yanked away from in front of my eyes.

I’m pretty much over it now, but it was such a shock, then, to suddenly notice everything around me had changed while I was in the cocoon of my relationship. I’d gotten older, and so had everyone I knew. I had boxes of photographs that featured a smiling me and a smirking Ethan… just with different backdrops. The break-up was a long time coming, of course, I mean… I think our feelings for each other just fizzled over the last year, and we were always irritable all the time, and so it was really for the best that he decided he’d move out of our apartment, and start over again. I got the apartment, and he got the dogs. I miss them. He also got the truck, which is why I’m riding the elevated train to work. Oh well, with the environment going the way it is, and gas at almost $5.00 a gallon for regular unleaded, it’s not like I need to be driving a freakin’ boat-on-wheels anyway. Ethan must be having a great time, paying almost seventy-five bucks every time he goes to the pump. Is it wrong of me to feel a little bit of vindictive pleasure at that thought?

Douglas and 9th Street, that’s my stop. I hear the same old speech humming through the speakers at the station, about the regulations and whatever else. A surly woman with an orange fluorescent vest seems to be glaring at me from her seat outside the security booth, but then, she’s glaring at everyone. See, there’s something I can be thankful for: I don’t have her job. Listening to that same tiresome schpeal over and over again on the loud speaker, dealing with people who can’t read the sign (It’s fucking colour-coded. A kindergartener could easily draw such a thing. The green train goes to the stops where the green line on the map goes. The red train goes to the stops where the map’s red line goes. It’s not that hard). It really must be a hell of a chore just to get the motivation to strap on that offensive day-glo vest and drag herself here every morning. I just have to sit in a cubicle and write spreadsheets and stuff. Number-crunching and paperwork, all incredibly exciting facets of the corporate world.

Actually, today is a little different. I’m in a group that’s meeting with some possible client, which, I’ll admit, is a little nerve-wracking. Usually, Ted does these meetings, not me, because he’s higher up in my department than I am, but his wife is having a baby, so I’m up to bat. It’s a lunch meeting, which means I’ll at least get a good meal out of it (no Cup Noodles and Pepsi from the vending machines today), but I’m just terrified that I’ll screw something up. I remember this one time, when I was like… nine. My older cousin and her fiancée (whom I’d never liked; he slicked his hair back like he thought he was a secret agent or something) had just come back from Paris, and my parents and my aunt and uncle and all of my cousins (on my mom’s side) went out to dinner. Well, they put this salad in front of me that had cherry tomatoes on top, and I bit into a particularly large one, and all the juice and seeds squirted out the other side, and right onto Mr. James Bond’s white dress shirt. My cousin was so angry with me, because I just could NOT stop laughing.

I enter the building, pass security, get my coffee and sit at my desk, waiting for 1:00 to roll around for the lunch meeting. Good Lord in heaven, there’s a stack of paperwork a mile high waiting on my desk for me, and it takes me two cups of coffee and the better part of the morning to get through it all. Yada yada yada, rework this Excel spreadsheet, blah blah blah, input on the expense projection Linda submitted… nothing really glamourous. Danny knocks on the wall of my cubicle, waiting in the little hall there, and I realize it must be about time to get going. We meet our boss on the way over to tell Kristine it’s time to go, and then the four of us head over to a nearby restaurant to meet the client and whatever entourage he has in tow.

And what an entourage. Okay, no, it’s not Vegas glitz or anything. It’s not like we were meeting Liberace at the sandwich shop. I mean, there’s the usual drab, demure-looking woman with her hair in a clip, and the obvious head honcho with his ample gut, and then a younger woman who is either an intern or an assistant or both, and a couple of guys like Danny and me, who may or may not be of any use to the group whatsoever. It’s all so typical.

Well… it’s almost all typical. I know I’m going to have a problem paying attention to what’s going on, because one of the tag-along guys in the client’s group is just… drop-dead gorgeous. Okay, I know, it sounds totally cliché, but seriously. I haven’t been stopped in my tracks like this since Ethan and I got together. (No, Ethan didn’t stop me in my tracks, I just, wasn’t really looking around after we started dating and then living together, and I guess I just didn’t remember how to look after he left, well…until just now.) Introductions all around, care of my boss and the client. I learn the dreamboat’s name is Eric von Bayros, and I get to see him acknowledge me when my boss says “and this is Louis Carmichael,” with the added tag of my job title. Oh my god, he totally leered at me. When I was introduced, the women in the other group nodded and smiled politely, and the other guy (who seemed pretty socially inept) looked up from the floor for a second to flash a weak smile at me, but Eric von Bayros inclined his head just slightly at me, with a coy little tilt to his chin, and turned his lips up while he quirked his eyebrow up. It all happened in just a half second, and I’m pretty sure nobody else saw it, but my eyes widened for a second and his grin broadened. It was one of those ‘I know that YOU know…’ moments.

I’m still hung up on it when the waitress comes around to take our orders, especially after he orders exactly the same thing I’m having, and gives me another glance across the table. I don’t know what he’s trying to pull, but I have a pretty good guess.

The client and my boss are talking pretty animatedly, and the younger woman is furiously taking notes (she is an intern, it was confirmed) and Kristine is being called upon occasionally for her professional opinion on things, while Danny surreptitiously draws designs in the condensation on his glass and the plain-looking older woman taps away on her palm pilot. Our plates come around and the server deposits identical turkey club sandwiches in front of Eric and me, and, like me, he immediately reaches for the pickle wedge before anything else. My boss asks me a few questions regarding the market trend of our stock, and I answer, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Eric half-sucking, half-scraping the seeds off of the pickle wedge. I turn back to my plate and try not to think about it.

It continues like that throughout the meeting, except about halfway through I stop trying to ignore Eric’s minute overtures, and start making eyes at him myself. It’s totally covert, of course. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell seems to apply to the workplace, too, so we’re not being obvious about it, but not even Danny, who is incredibly observant, notices us.

The meeting ends well, and the boss and the client shake hands in a friendly manner, with promises to be in touch soon. I scrawl my number on a scrap of notepaper and secretly pass it to Eric when we’re shaking hands. He gives me this smile that makes the nerves all along my spine tingle. God damn. He smells amazing, too. He’s got this gorgeous skin and these dark blue eyes and this dark brown hair that has lighter highlights in it from sun exposure (you can tell it’s from sunlight, instead of from a bottle) and he’s taller than I am by a long shot, but that’s okay.
I don’t get the call until a few days later. Jesus, I thought only girls followed that ‘wait three days’ rule. Then again, maybe the guy was legitimately busy, instead of trying not to look desperate or whatever that rule was supposed to prevent. My phone rings just as I’m leaving the train station on my way home, so I don’t really have to worry about what I say.

“Hey,” he says, “It feels weird to call you Mr. Carmichael. Can I call you Louis?” I said he could, and he said, “Good, call me Eric and make it even.” I could hear the smirk in his voice and wondered if I’d made a mistake in giving him my number, because I didn’t want to deal with him if he was going to turn out to be a douche.

“Umm, so,” he began after a beat. “Sorry I didn’t call. I got back to the office after that lunch meeting to find out that one of the computers on the network had fritzed out, and it took me the last couple of days to restore the information, so I was doing boku overtime trying to recover everything from DOS.”

“Oh, I know how that is, that happened to us once last year. How many cups of coffee did it take you?” I laughed, glad my first impression from this call seemed to have been off.

“Oh, I couldn’t even count… it would be too depressing.” He laughed and then got down to business. “So I’d like to see you, outside of the workplace,” he stated, leaving it up to me to infer if he meant he wanted to go out for dinner or if he meant he wanted a quick fuck. Actually, I was up for either. Or both. Whatever.

“I’d like that as well,” I said, as if it was a coveted admission. “When are you free?” Maybe I’d get a clue as to his intentions from the time of day he offered.

“Oh, any time after work, really, provided nothing bad happens to the network, knock on wood. And Saturdays are good but Sundays I have a class.” Damn, no such luck. Despite the fact that I didn’t quite know what he wanted from me, I was enjoying myself just talking to him. I finding his friendly conversation a surprise after the way he’d acted at lunch: the leering and the teasing and all that. I’d kind-of expected him to start coming on to me from the get-go like he did at the lunch meeting.

“How about Friday? People go out on Fridays, right?” I chuckled and he joined me.

“Works for me, where should we meet?”

So we worked out that we’d go have a few drinks, which of course meant ‘we’ll have a few and then see where it goes.’

The week dragged by, but when doesn’t it? Of course I was alternatingly fretting over Friday night, and trying not to think about it, but when Friday afternoon rolled around, it was all I could do to keep from tapping my foot and tapping my pencil and tapping my fingers and generally annoying the hell out of my fellow prairie dog office workers, as I looked at the clock, oh… only every five fucking minutes.

End of my day and I’m gone, and meet the blue line train that’ll take me towards this bar he recommended instead of the green line which would take me home. I get to the bar and realize I’m early, and wonder if maybe I should take a walk around the block to kill time because I don’t want to look over-eager. I’m over-analyzing. So sue me, I haven’t ‘dated’ in six goddamn years. I’m rusty. I see Eric’s already inside and figure, what the hell.

He waves me over to where he’s sitting and he’s drinking some colourful thing with fruit on a skewer sticking out of it, and I comment that it looks like a fruity girly drink. He frowns in mock-offense and said he ordered it because pomegranate-pineapple sounded really interesting. Okay, so that does sound good, but he doesn’t need to know I think so.

I order a Guinness, a good, strong, manly drink, and he asks if I’m compensating for something with my macho drink order, and with the most juvenile hauteur I can muster I stick my nose up and say, “Wouldn’t YOU like to know,” and stick my tongue out at him.

He leans toward me.

I gulp.

“I would, in fact,” he says, his voice doing that sexy growly thing that has my skin crawling all over. I stare into the head of foam on my mug, and chew the inside of my lip with a little smile before raising my eyes and peer at him from under my eyelashes (which have always been RIDICULOUSLY long. I got made fun of a lot when I was a kid, for looking like a girl.) and damned if he doesn’t fucking blush like a virgin! It’s so great. One minute he’s the wolf, and the next minute the sheep. Well, they do say variety is the spice of life.

So we’ve had a few and it’s put some colour in his face, and we’re not really drunk but just, you know, feeling good, and we’re laughing and talking bullshit and doing those flirtatious exchanges like before here and there. It’s like being seventeen all over again, in a way. There’s this kind-of tentative propositioning going on, but instead of being awkward and somewhat ashamed, I have ten more years of experience under my belt, so it’s just fun, fun to feel young again, to joke around for a while instead of just rolling into bed and bumping like robots.

Okay, now I’m being unfair to Ethan. I’m not saying they sex wasn’t good. It was, and it was even exciting and different for four or five years. But then, we kind-of fell into this pattern, and it was more about getting off than about genuinely loving each other, and it became somewhat mechanical, routine. In my head, I’m imagining what being with Eric would be like, wondering how he’d compare to Ethan. Then I wonder if it’s wrong to compare this guy (whom I’d really only JUST met) to my ex-lover, but, really… How can you expect anything else? I mean SHIT, six years is kind-of a long time. Like, I knew all of Ethan’s little quirks. I knew that he could only eat the white frosted animal cookies, despite my insistence that the pink ones taste exactly the same. I knew that he couldn’t do anything useful in the morning before brushing his teeth. I even knew that he’d called his mother Mama, his father Papa, and his grandmother Goosie until he was thirteen. I don’t really know much about Eric thus far, so I really shouldn’t be comparing him to Ethan right off the bat like that.

Still, there is one thing that I DO want to compare, and as soon as possible. See, Ethan was not lacking in the genitals department. Maybe not the longest in the world, but, you know, thick. I was always afraid that he’d stretch me out irreparably, so I was always doing those Kegel exercises to prevent that, and it kept us both happy for a good, long time. I’m wondering what Eric’s packing, and maybe after another pint, I’ll ask him.

Well, either he’s got a low tolerance or his fruity girly drinks pack a hell of a punch because he’s good and sloshed before I’ve even got a good buzz going. Dealing with drunks when you’re (relatively) sober is a major pain in the ass, and I kind-of want to call him a cab and send him home, but I don’t know his address and he’s really in no state to tell me, so I guess I’ve got to take him home with me so he can sleep it off.

I hail a cab while he leans against me (which seriously weighs me down because, like I said, he’s much taller than I am) and hustle him into the seat before he can put up much of a protest. Despite the fact that I hate dealing with drunks, he’s pretty cute with the colour in his face, and he’s just smiling and kind-of hanging all over me, which is kinda nice, you know? He’s not even saying that much, which is good. Drunks usually say stupid things which just piss me off, so it’s best that he keeps his mouth shut, aside from the stray mumble here and there. The cabbie swerves through traffic in that distinctive manner and Eric looks momentarily green, and I have a horrible vision of him puking all over me and the cab, but he seems to shake it off, so I calm down. I think that, gorgeous or not, if he puked all over me I’d never speak to him again.

Back to my apartment and he’s slumped against the elevator wall, face pressed up against the reflective metal and eyes closed. He sighed.

“Hey, Lou?” he called quietly.

“Yeah?”

“You taking me to your place?”

“I am.”

“Gonna have me sleep on the couch?” I think about it. Am I going to invite him into my bed? Logistically, the bedroom adjoins the bathroom, so if he felt sick in the night, it would likely be best for him to be in the bedroom, instead of potentially tripping over the coffee table and being sick on my rug or something. Perhaps it’d be best for me to sleep on the couch.

“Nope. You get the bed,” I tell him.

“…Where’re you gonna sleep?” he asks, brows furrowing minutely.

“The sofa, probably.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“But it’s YOUR bed…” This was becoming tiresome. This is why I dislike having to take care of drunks. I sigh.

“Yes, but, the bedroom is closest to the bathroom, so if your drinks decide to make a second appearance, you won’t be in danger of making a mess.”

He grins a little.

“Tch… I’m not THAT drunk. I had like… how many of those colourful thingies?”

“If you can’t remember, it’s too many.” I smile in spite of myself.

He nods.

“Thanks,” he says, finally, nodding as if agreeing with my decision.

We reach my floor and I shuffle him to my door, struggling to both support him and fit my key into the lock. We stumble into the dark apartment and I feel along the wall for the lights. He blinks in the sudden brightness, making a little sound of discomfort. I say a quick sorry and lead him to the couch. He sits down heavily and I leave to go make a pot of coffee, force of habit.

“How do you like your coffee?” I call from the kitchen. No response. I ask again, poking my head out the door to make myself more audible.

“Hm? Oh. Uh, milk and sugar.”

I nod and wait for the coffee maker to do its thing. It gives me some time to regroup, although I worry that he’ll pass out on my couch before I’ve gotten any coffee into his system. I’ve heard that coffee doesn’t really help sober a person up, but its like the magic feather: believing makes it so. I bring the coffee out to him in a New York City souvenir mug which is kind-of a cute fluted shape instead of the standard cylinder. I sip mine (hot and black) from a green bowl-looking mug and he smiles. He nurses his coffee and looks around the room, taking in the various decorations in my living room. He stares for a while at a framed poster I have advertising a Frida Kahlo exhibit, three years ago at the city’s art museum. I’d gone with Ethan even though she was never really my cuppa tea. Ethan was bloody crazy about her, and I never understood it. Actually, I kind-of worry that the reason I never liked her was that huge fuckin’ monobrow of hers. I hope I’m more cultured than that.

“Didju see that show?” Eric asks at length. I say that I had.

“Me too. Didn’ much like it. Didn’ see what the big deal was. Went to keep up appearances, y’know?” he takes a deep gulp of coffee. “Wonder if she’d be as famous if it weren’t for that unibrow.” I laugh quietly. He has a point. “An’ another thing. Diego Rivera wasn’ really attractive, either. She has this bit where she says somethin’ like, ‘Diego Rivera was the only man I ever desired’, yada yada yada, but I don’ see why.”

“Apparently, Frida’s sister had similar tastes. Didn’t Diego Rivera cheat on Frida with her sister?”

“Somethin’ like that. I think. I dunno… man I’m dizzy.” He slumps over onto the arm of the sofa and finishes his coffee.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, mister,” I warn, standing to collect his cup.

“I’m not, I’m just dizzy. Excellent impression I’m making, huh?” He gives me a forlorn and lop-sided smile, letting me take the mug from his fingers. I shrug. It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened to me. I help him to his feet and show him to the bedroom, pulling a pair of pajama pants from a drawer and tossing them on the foot of the bed, in case he elects to wear them. He sits on the edge of the bed and blinks the bleariness from his eyes. He looks like he’s going to say something, so I stand near him and wait. Finally, he looks up at me and brings a hand up to the back of my neck. I let him pull me into a slow, alcohol-and-coffee-flavoured kiss. He takes his time about it, teasing my lips with tongue and teeth until my body heats up a little and I play back. He breaks away slowly after a while and smiles up at me.

“Thanks,” he says again, before turning to prepare for sleep.

I leave him to it, and wander back into the living room, arching and stretching, and surveying my domain. I’m not really ready to sleep, yet, so I sit around with a second cup of coffee, thinking things over. What would happen in the morning? Would we ever have a second date? I mean, I’d be interested in getting to know him better and all that, maybe having dinner next time, instead of letting him get that sauced. Furthermore, I’m still incredibly attracted to him, despite the fact that I had to deal with his drunken stupidity. I’m willing to forgive him that. I suppose I’ll have to see what happens in the morning. I get the quilt from the hall closet and pass out on the couch.

I’m up before he is, but it’s Saturday, and I don’t have anything to do. I start making breakfast: cut grapefruit and fried eggs, and eventually, he stumbles in wearing just those pajama pants I’d put out last night. My mouth goes dry looking at him. The pants hang low on him (as they do on me) and he’s got lovely hip bones, and a flat stomach, and a toned chest and a long throat and he’s evenly tanned and gorgeous all over. Really, I’d rather have him for breakfast than my lousy fruit and eggs.

He’s not looking at me, though. He’s rubbing his eyes and blinking and looking like he’s probably got a headache. I clear my throat and he brings his eyes up to regard me blearily. I smile consolingly and he gives a weak grin in return.

“Hungry?” I ask, showing him the sizzling pan of eggs.

“Not really, but I should probably get some food in me,” he answers with a sleep-rough voice. He falls heavily into a chair and picks gingerly at the food I put in front of him, mostly working on emptying the cup of coffee I quietly place by his plate. He’s very polite, and seems somewhat apologetic, and thanks me for every kindness I show him. It’s really very sweet. He even offers to wash the dishes. Hmm… he may be worth keeping around.

Well, he’s going to stick around for a bit anyway, because he’s abysmally hung-over, and really in no state to travel. It’s probably best for him to rest up until he feels better and the floor is steadier under his feet. I tell him so, and after a bit of a pause, he agrees with me. I think he feels like he’s imposing. He isn’t at all, of course, because even as I tell him to make himself at home, in my mind, I’m imagining climbing into his lap and having my wicked way with him. Surely he realizes I’m ravenously attracted to him?

Having finished washing up, I can see he’s not really sure what to do with himself. I watch him fidget for a bit, just because I’m amused by it, but eventually make my way into the living room, and he follows. We flop onto the couch and watch the morning news, making small talk, telling little stories.

“How’s your head?” I ask.

“Uugghhhhhh…” He answers. I see. The news is rather uninspiring, as well. Gas prices may be going down, but so is stock, and the housing market is on a steep downward spiral. We’re poised on the brink of recession, and, with both of us being in the corporate workforce; Eric and I worry for the future of our jobs and livelihoods. He heaves a great sigh and I look over at him.

“Doesn’t look good,” he says. I nod. “Nobody wants to use the word ‘depression’, they talk ‘recession’ when the truth is, we’ve been heading that way since the late 80’s. How far does it have to go before it’s a depression? And, how far have we gotten on the way to that point?” I turn the T.V. off, and this time it’s my turn to sigh.

“Well, I suppose we’ll know it’s a depression when there are breadlines on 8th Avenue,” I reply, “But let’s not talk about this. It’s… depressing.” He smiles at my choice of words, though it is grim.

He allows himself to lean over and rest his head on my shoulder. I like it there. I tilt my head against his. He sits up a little to look at me, and I turn to look back at him. Face to face, we draw nearer, until, a breath apart, we’re staring into one-another’s eyes. There’s a moment of hesitation, where each of us is questioning the other, making sure this is okay, making sure it won’t be refused when our lips lock and we’re nearly devouring each other. He pushes me down into the sofa cushions and his weight pushes his mouth closer to mine. I make an appreciative noise and he wraps his arms tight around me. I run my hands over his bare back, and it’s beautifully muscled and I love the feel of it. Again, he tastes of coffee, and he has a slight stubble that I can feel when I kiss over his jaw and back to his mouth again. He’s chewing on my lower lip, and I don’t know how he knew, but somehow, he’s doing it in exactly the way which turns my innards to jelly and soon my legs are wrapped around his hips and I’m wanting him. He moans low in his throat and I pant in response, wondering if he’s going to fuck me. I kinda want him to. Well, more than kinda.

We stumble to the bedroom, kissing and running our hands all over each other as we go. He pushes me up against the wall on the way, hard, and pins me there with his body; his tall, lean body, and bucks into me. Through the simple cotton sleep pants I can feel that he’s getting hard, and I’m getting there, too. I kiss down his neck and suck and nibble here and there, and he’s breathing hard, and he pulls away and looks me in the eye, and he looks ferocious, passionate. I feel hazy and realize I probably look pretty debauched. My mouth is open, my lips are swollen with kisses, I’m panting, I know my face is flushed and I’ve begun to sweat with wanting him… I lick my lips. He watches. His eyes darken. I swallow.

“Do you want it?” he asks, seriously, examining my face. I nod furiously, not trusting my own voice. He tugs me into the bedroom and we fall onto the bed, him on top of me, me grinding against him, him reaching into my pants and squeezing my ass, me arching up and gasping, him biting my shoulder. We push our pants out of the way and buck, his cock pressing deliciously into mine. His feels long. Really long. I look down and DAMN, it is. I moan at the sight of it, and Eric grins wolfishly.

“Like what you see?”

“Fuck… yeah,”

“Y’want it?”

“Oh! Ahhnn…” I pant for a second, unable to do anything but move my hips faster against his. “YES!”

“‘Yes’ what?”

“YES, I want it!”

“You want my cock?”

“YES!”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“YES!”

“You want me to pound your ass until you can’t think anymore, until you can’t see straight, until you scream?”

“YES, OH GOD, YES!!” I tense and come all over him and myself, and claw his back, while he digs around in the bedside table drawer. I take deep breaths to calm myself, but as soon as I smell the artificial peach scent in the air, I know he’s warming lube in his fingers and I’ll soon feel-AH!- his fingers brushing against my entrance, teasing there, before one pushes in, and twists, and pulls out, and in, and out, and then two are in, pressing up, and I jerk and spasm because fuck, he’s rubbing my prostate consciously, and I just know he’s grinning while I arch and shake. Three fingers now and it’s hard to even breathe. My heart is pounding, and I want him RIGHT NOW, but he’s taking his time stretching me, watching me twist and tense.

“Eric, Eric PLEASE.”

“You want me in you?” I nod. “You ready for me?” I nod harder, GOD, I just want him already. “Okay, here I come…”

He slides in, a lubed condom making it even slicker, and doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. I groan all the way through, and pant and nearly sob because he goes SO DEEP. Deeper than Ethan ever could. I don’t think ANYONE’S ever touched those places before, and he’s stroking them so nice, and brushing over that special bundle of nerves every time he thrusts in, slowly at first, but then faster, because I’m begging for it.

“Harder, faster, please, oh, god, Eric, PLEASE!” and I’m amazed at the desperation in my own voice, but he just feels SO GOOD. SO. GOOD.

I lock my thighs around his hips and clutch to his back and force myself down on his cock as he thrusts into me and he moans, deep in his chest, and I love the sound. My legs are shaking, it’s so good.

He pins my shoulders to the bed and this angles my hips up and gives him a new angle which is beautiful and I’m seeing red spots and screaming until my throat is raw and he suddenly pulls out and I cry out in protest but he turns me over so my leg is over his shoulder and then he pushes back in again, slow and wonderful, and thrusts right into my prostate and I gasp and almost choke before he’s back to the punishing pace he’d set before and my eyes are watering and tears run down my face and I couldn’t stop it if I tried but I’m not going to try because I can’t even think at all. He’s really fucking my brains out. I’m moaning or screaming or both and he’s repeating my name over and over and I never even knew my name could sound that way.

He moves me again, and this time I’m sitting in his lap, riding him, and his hands are on my hips, forcing me down hard, and I throw my weight into it. He moans long and loud and our eyes lock. I can’t focus on him, he’s just a gorgeous blur, but my breath catches in my throat and I feel his rhythm falter and he’s clutching my hips hard enough to bruise and he’s coming, hard, and bucking through it, and watching him, I come again, all over my chest and his stomach, and I close my eyes and throw my head back and release a long, shuddering moan that shakes my body almost as much as my orgasm does.

I wake up on my back, with Eric curled up against my side. We must have passed out because I don’t remember lying down, and I smile a little, thinking that he fucked me into unconsciousness. I brush a bit of hair out of his face and he mumbles a little in his sleep. It’s pretty adorable. My heart throbs and I hug him close, and he opens his eyes for a moment, kisses my forehead, and goes back to sleep. I close my eyes, as well, placing against his forehead a matching kiss of my own. With this, our contract is sealed, and I drift back into sleep; dreaming of pleasant days with him.



A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please don’t hesitate to read my other stories, which can be found on my author’s page. c: