5. Jamie

I am making out with a guy—I'm in a guy's apartment, and I have a different guy's phone number in my pocket. Who even am I? This is not my usual MO. I don't have one night stands—and I'm fairly certain that's what this is. WeI barely shared any information with each other other than names, that I'm from North Carolina, and he moved a lot as a kid. There's been no getting to know each other, talk of going out sometime, or even exchanging of phone numbers. And although I've never actually had a one night stand, Mina's recounted enough of hers prior to meeting Chloe that I know all of this screams one night stand.

I am not the guy who makes out with strangers in bars, or pressed against walls in dimly lit side streets. And yet, here I am, pressed against a door in an unfamiliar apartment with a beautiful man's lips nipping at my collarbone, my hands tangled in his hair to keep him there. It's been like this since we first kissed on the dance floor nearly an hour ago now. While we were waiting at the bar for me to pay my tab, while we stood outside waiting for the Uber to bring us to Adrian's apartment, even when we were on the elevator to his floor, we've been in some sort of contact. We can barely keep our hands off each other.

The thing is, I don't think I've ever felt like this in, God, years. Since college. I don't know if it's just because this is all brand new, so it's more exciting somehow, or what, but something about Adrian lights me on fire. It's like I'm drawn to him by some invisible force. I'd felt a glimpse of that when we locked eyes across the room—which sounds so cliche now that I think about it—but that was mostly nerves and bisexual panic. This is something else entirely. This is pure want. Unadulterated desire. And, okay, a little bit of nerves still because while I theoretically know what I'm doing, and I've practiced what I can by myself, I have no idea if I'm any good at any of it.

But kissing, that I know how to do. That skill is a one-to-one transfer from women to men. Although, I will admit that usually in the past I've been more physically in charge in my physical relationships with women—not that women can't be dominant. But most women I've ever been with look at me and see that I'm tall and know I'm in politics and assume I want to be the one in control. And I do like that, but God, if I'm not just a little bit obsessed with the way Adrian is just taking what he wants from me.

Like right now, how he's deftly shedding his own coat then shoving mine off my shoulders and letting them both fall to the floor in a pile, all without detaching his lips from mine. It's freeing. I can almost turn my brain off and just be… me. And I like this feeling. Right now, I'm not a congressman from North Carolina, or a former policy writer for the governor on the campaign trail, or even a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old with his sights set on a career in politics. I'm just a normal twenty-eight year old bisexual man who goes home with beautiful strangers and apparently likes when said stranger is a little bit taller than him and pushes him against surfaces while kissing him absolutely stupid.

With less layers between us, I can feel the contours of his chest where it's pressed against mine, and now that we're alone, I give into the very strong desire I had in the club to get my hands in places other than clasped behind his neck. My hands find his hips, and I feel him hum against my lips, almost in encouragement. Emboldened, I dip my hands beneath his sweater and explore his waist, reveling in his smooth, warm skin.

I pull him closer, and he hums again as his hips roll against mine in a way that has me breaking the kiss with a quiet gasp. He does it again, this time wedging his thigh between mine to get more contact. I can't help the gasp that escapes me again at the friction against my rapidly hardening cock.

"So responsive." His voice is low and warm in my ear, his breath ghosting across my skin, practically making me whimper. "It's okay, baby. Let me hear you."

His lips find my neck again, his teeth nip at my skin, sending goosebumps down my body.

I couldn't stop the moan or words that follow, even if I wanted to. "Fuck, Adrian—"

My head falls back against the door, and I squeeze my eyes shut to try to quiet my brain because do I also have a bit of a praise kink in addition to everything else I'm learning about myself tonight? Everything that he is making me learn about myself. A stranger is helping me discover things—very intimate things about myself— when I don't know anything about him.

But that's fine. That's what tonight was supposed to be about, right? So I'm fine. I want this. I'm not freaking out.

Except that I kind of am, and as much as I wanted to try to be the person who doesn't need to have complete control over every aspect of my life and can let go enough to hook up with a stranger, I am not that person. And his lips are still exploring my neck, his hips are rolling against mine, and I can feel him hardening against my hip. My hands return to his hips, but I honestly don't know if it's to pull him closer or push him away. All I know is that I need a minute to think. "Shit, wait, I—"

He immediately freezes and pulls back. "Are you—"

"Sorry. I—" I inhale sharply. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

His face immediately softens. "No, it's okay. You don't need to apologize for wanting to stop. I understand." He takes a step back to put some distance between us, which I now know I definitely don't want, so I tighten my grip on his hips to keep him from getting too far away.

"I don't want to stop, I just—" I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the door again as I blow out a frustrated breath. "Sorry, give me a minute."

"Stop apologizing," he says. "Take your time."

I nod and try to sort my thoughts, which is much easier now that there's a little bit of space between us. I feel his hands rest on my upper arms, and he squeezes gently, reassuringly. The act feels strangely intimate given what we were just doing, but does wonders to calm me. I take a deep breath, then slowly release it.

I meant what I said. I don't want to stop. As much as I'm feeling a bit like a fish out of water here, completely out of my depth, I know if I left right now I'd regret it. I want him, even if it's only for one night. Except that won't shut up the part of my brain that is screaming "you don't do this" and telling it "but I want to, anyway" clearly isn't working either. But maybe if I just placate that little voice…

"Okay," I open my eyes and lift my head to look at him, "here's the thing: I rarely do this—have one night stands I mean. To be honest, I've never done this." I choose to leave out the part about also never being with a man before. If this mini freak out hasn't already chased him away, I don't want my lack of physical experience to be what does.

His brow furrows. "I didn't know. If I'd known—"

"No, it's alright, darlin'." I say it so quickly, that stupid term of endearment rolls off my tongue again. Although, now that we're in better lighting, I can see his cheeks going a subtle shade of pink, so maybe it's not so stupid. His reaction gives me a bit of my confidence back, so I continue on before I lose my nerve. "I want to do this. You're really hot—beautiful really,"—I smile at the way his breath catches—"and I am very into everything that's happening right now. But, I hardly know anything about you, and my brain won't shut up about it, so if you could just—" I pull him closer again—"indulge me a little. Let me ask you a couple of questions to get to know you enough to shut my brain up. We can go back to what we were doing—especially that thing you were doing with your teeth because that was fantastic."

He chuckles, and I'm equal parts relieved and pleased at his reaction.

"Not at all," he says. "Can we move to the couch, though?"

I grin and push forward to brush our lips together. "Definitely."

He smiles against my lips, then steps fully back. I almost reach for him, already missing his touch, but then I realize he's only taking off his shoes. I awkwardly balance on each foot to slip my boots off, then once I stand, he's back, pressing a brief kiss to my lips and lacing our fingers together to lead me to the couch. And fuck, right when I felt like I had the upper hand, he takes it right back because I can't help melting a little.

He sits and gestures to the cushion next to him. But instead, I smile and settle over his lap, straddling his hips and bracing myself on his shoulders.

"This okay?" I ask.

He swallows, then nods.

"Perfect." I lean in for a kiss, which goes on for a few long moments before he breaks the kiss and goes back to my neck. I groan as he nips the skin with his teeth, then soothes it with his tongue. I'm probably going to be covered with hickeys by the end of the night, which Mina will kill me for, but that's what makeup is for.

"As much as I love making you make that sound, didn't you have some questions you wanted to ask me?" he asks.

Oh, right. "Yeah, um, what do you do?"

"I'm a vet. And you?"

Shit, I didn't think I'd have to answer these questions, too, when I proposed the idea. It's fair, though. But I remember Mina's warning to be careful not to let anyone know my position, so I have to be vague. I also can't give him any room for a followup question. "I work in government. Do you work at a clinic, or like, a big hospital or the zoo?"

"Clinic," he answers, then adds, "It's mostly cats and dogs, but I get the occasional bird or turtle."

"Favorite animal?"

"Red pandas and cats. I have two." He pulls away and looks around the living room. "I'm actually a little surprised neither of them have made themselves known."

"Two red pandas or two cats?" I ask, not missing a beat.

He laughs, and I can't help grinning. Okay, I really like making him laugh like that.

"What are your cats' names?"

"Joseph and Molly," he says with an adorably fond smile.

"I love when animals have people names," I say.

"Me, too. I once had a patient named Mortimer, which has been one of my particular favorites."

"Okay, that's amazing. Was it a turtle? I'm picturing a turtle."

"It was, actually."

"Knew it." I'm practically beaming now as we fall into a brief silence. I take advantage of it to check in with the annoying little voice in the back of my head, finding that it's gone quiet. Thank God.

"Okay, even though I could probably end up asking you for fun animal stories all night, I think I'm good now," I say.

"Are you sure? I don't want you to feel obligated—"

"I don't," I say, cutting him off. "I am absolutely sure. I'm sorry I kind of, well, you know. Sometimes my brain gets stuck on an idea and—"

"I thought I told you to stop apologizing," he says with just a hint of sternness in his voice—which I definitely don't feel some sort of way about. "There is nothing wrong with listening to what your body or brain is trying to tell you. Besides, I… get it." He says it carefully, like he's trying to be vague. But he didn't call me out about my vague job description, so I'm not going to either.

"Thank you. But I really am one hundred percent good, I promise," I murmur, then I tangle my fingers in his hair and angle his head back so I can brush my lips along his jaw and down to his neck.

He hums, seemingly satisfied, then softly moans as I start to suck at a spot where his neck meets his shoulder, determined to leave my own mark. "You are definitely good," he whispers into my hair.

A shiver runs down my spine at his whispered praise, and I feel his silent chuckle as he catches my response. And honestly? I can't even be mad at him for it because yeah, that's very much a thing, apparently. His hands, which have been gently resting on my thighs, now move to my hips, then suddenly I'm on my back on the couch, his body covering mine.

Things start to blur from there. We're all sloppy kisses and roaming hands. His sweater makes its way to the floor at some point, which I'm pretty confident is his own doing because I'm practically putty beneath him, especially as he starts to kiss his way down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt as he goes. Thank you, Mina, for convincing me to go without an undershirt. Otherwise, I wouldn't be experiencing the sensory heaven that is Adrian's lips and the silk of my shirt brushing against my skin—warm and cold, juxtaposed. I stare at the top of his head as he travels south, aware he can probably feel how hard my heart is beating and how shallow my breaths are getting.

He pauses just above the waistband of my jeans and looks up. "This okay?"

It takes me a moment to process that he's checking in, seeking consent, which is such a massive turn on. I nod enthusiastically, unsure if I can even form words right now. Really, though, how did it take me so long to figure out I'm bi?

His brow furrows slightly, and he props himself on his elbow to look at me more directly. "Can you—I need words. Please."

I swallow hard and reach down to card my fingers through his hair, giving him the little bit of reassurance it seems like he might need. "Yeah, darlin'," I say on an exhale, purposely slipping in the endearment this time. "Definitely more than okay. Please."

His features relax into a small smirk, and he presses a slow kiss below my navel. "Good. Thank you." His hands are quick as he expertly undoes my jeans and slides them down my hips, pulling my boxers along with them and freeing my aching cock. I must let out a moan because he props himself on his elbow again and smirks at me. Then he slowly wraps a hand around me, strokes slowly as he wets his lips.

It takes everything I have not to buck up into his hand. He's barely done anything, and I'm already this keyed up. I mean, yeah, it's been months since I last got laid, but still, you'd think I've never had a hand job before. I let my head fall back to the couch. Maybe if I don't look at him, I can get some semblance of control so I don't embarrass myself. I hear him hum, feel his lips graze my hip bone and the crease where my thigh and pelvis meet as his hand moves along my length. Then I hear the crinkle of a wrapper, which has me lifting my head again.

I blink through the haze and focus on the foil packet in his hand. Condoms. Fuck. Thank God he clearly still has some blood flow going to his brain because apparently, I'm so far gone with lust that I didn't even stop to think about that.

"You don't have a latex allergy, do you?" he asks, and I shake my head.

"No, we're good. Do you, uh, want me to do that?" I stutter, gesturing unintelligibly.

He smirks. "No, I've got it."

I sigh at the loss of his hand as he tears the wrapper open. I watch as he inspects the condom, pinches the tip, and places it on the head of my cock. Then he smirks at me again, lowers his head, and—dear Lord, I think this man might actually be the death of me because he locks eyes with me before rolling it down with his lips.

Jesus Christ, that was the hottest thing I think I've ever witnessed in my life. My head falls back to look at the ceiling with a moan. I don't think I'm ever going to recover from that. Especially when he proceeds to give me the best blow job I've ever had. I'm pretty sure my brain blue screens. Or I float out of my own body into another plane of existence and the only thing tethering me to the room is my hand in his hair. It also lets me feel his head bob along my length, which even as much as I'd love to watch him, I resolutely refuse to because I'm pretty sure I'll come on the spot if I do. I'm already dangerously close, which I'm sure he knows based on the steady stream of noises spilling from my mouth. Moans, darlin's, at one point, I think even a "sweetheart" slips out.

I try to keep it together as long as possible, but then he takes me down to the root. I feel the head of my cock hit the back of his throat, and gasp out in warning. "Adrian, I'm—" He hums around me, and it's all the encouragement I need. My orgasm hits me like a truck, my back arching off the couch as I clutch at every part of him I can reach—his hair, his shoulder. His hands grip my hips hard, holding me to him as he works me through it.

Then he lifts his head, and I finally look at him. God, he looks like absolute sin with his eyes so blown I can hardly see the hazel color and his lips puffy and slick with spit. I drag him up and into a sloppy kiss, moving so fast I nearly butt heads with him. The kiss is more me panting into his mouth than anything else, due to me not fully recovering my breath yet. My chest rises and falls so fast, you'd think I ran a marathon—which I would be embarrassed about if he didn't seem as out of breath as me. He looks wrecked, like he got almost as much out of that as I did. Just the thought has my cock twitching again with renewed interest. No one I've been with has ever gotten so much enjoyment out of giving a blowjob. Sure, I've been with girls that liked it, but they never looked this debauched after. Is this a being-with-another-guy thing, or just an Adrian thing?

I'm a little desperate to return the favor despite having no real idea what I'm doing. Based on his reactions, I'm sure I'd have a great time figuring it out. But I'm not all that sure if my limbs will cooperate with the position change that would require. I can still get my hands on him from this position, though. With slightly jittery hands, I reach down between our bodies, first to quickly pull off the condom and tie it off, though what I'm going to do with it now, I have no idea. I can't just throw it on his floor.

Like he's able to read my mind, Adrian reaches over the arm of the couch, plucks a tissue off the side table, and hands it to me. All without managing to break our kiss. I mumble a thank you against his lips, then the second my hands are free, they go for the button of his jeans. I'm not nearly as graceful as he was, but he doesn't seem to care. He just keeps kissing me, almost as though he needs it like he needs air.

When I finally get his jeans undone and wrap my hand around him, he finally breaks the kiss with a low moan.

A small whine escapes me in response, especially as I look down between us—at my fingers wrapped around his cock. The sight of it almost feels like a religious experience. It feels ground shifting, life altering—even more than when he kissed me earlier tonight.

I move slowly at first, adjusting my muscle memory to the slightly different angle. Then I swipe my thumb across the head, earning a sharp inhale, and it gives me the confidence to change my pace.

With another moan, he drops his face to the crook of my neck. "Jamie."

Jesus Christ, the way he says my name is going to haunt my dreams for at least a month. The sound of his voice in general. I need more of it. "Tell me what you like, darlin'. Wanna make you feel good."

"Just like that, baby. You're so good." His praise trickles down my spine, making me shiver. "I'm not going to take long. I was already so close hearing you make those obscene noises."

"Adrian." A gasp escapes me, and my rhythm falters for a second before I regain my focus.

"Almost, just like—yes, Jamie—" His breath hitches. He's close.

I weave my free hand back into his hair and drag his lips to mine. And that's what tips him over the edge. His teeth sink into my lower lip as he stifles a cry. Then I feel him spill over my hand, onto my torso. With my lips against his, I work him through the aftershocks, until he shudders from oversensitivity.

After a few moments, when our breath returns to normal, the kiss turns slow. For just a moment, I let myself bask in it. I could probably spend the rest of the night cuddling and softly kissing him. But I know that's not what happens next here. I don't know what actually does, other than us cleaning up, but I know it's not that.

Apparently reading my mind again, he breaks the kiss and reaches for more tissues. He hands a few to me, then sits back to tuck himself back into his jeans. I shimmy my pants back up, then wipe up my chest as best as I can with tissues. It's not perfect, but I can always clean myself up when I go home, which I assume is what I'm supposed to do right now. Right? I mean, if we were already in bed, a sleepover might be more obviously implied, but we never made it that far.

Do I ask? Would he think I'm desperate if I did?

No, I don't think so. He was kind and understanding when I admitted this was my first one-night-stand. But even if he did think that, does it matter if I'm never going to see him again?

"Jamie?"

I shake myself from my thoughts to look over at him. "Bathroom?" I blurt.

"Down that hall," he says, pointing off to the right of the living room.

After disposing of our mess and washing my hands, I return to the living room. Now that I'm not distracted by his hands and lips, I take in the room. My mother has always said you can learn a lot about a person by looking at their home. Mine, for example, is loud like me—filled with color, personal touches, and furniture from thrift stores. But I'm not sure if I can learn anything about Adrian from his. There are almost no personal touches to be seen—no art on the walls, no knick-knacks or picture frames. All the furniture looks like it's from Ikea. In fact, if it weren't for the bookshelf full of bright colored and broken-in spines, it would look like an Ikea showroom.

"Everything okay?"

I draw my attention away from the bookcase and look at Adrian. He's got one leg propped up on the couch with his arms wrapped around his shin, and his chin propped up on his knee as he looks at me with a furrowed brow.

"I don't know what the protocol is here," I admit. "Like do you want me to leave, or…?"

"Stay."

For a brief moment, the speed of his answer has me wondering if maybe I was wrong about never seeing him again. But then he unravels himself, stands, and closes the distance between us.

"I was hoping, since we didn't even make it to the bedroom, you'd stay for a second round," he says, his voice low as he hooks his fingers in my belt loops and pulls me flush against him.

And who would I be to say no to that?