30. Olivier

Drew's cock is leaking and stiff, but it's velvet on my tongue. I take him to the root, grinding my chin on his balls, breathing the scent of his unruly pubes. They tickle my nose, and I fucking love it.

I also love what deep throating does to him. He goes all beast mode, holding my head down, forcing me to struggle to swallow his length. He bucks, too, not that he can get any deeper, but because he can't help himself. "Fuck, that's good…"

I force my head back, breaking his hold and popping off to see the wild desire in his eyes. And he wanted to tell me shitty news? No, thanks. This is much, much better.

"You gonna suck me to sleep or fuck me to sleep?"

"Fuck? Please?"

While I grab the lube and slather myself, Drew turns onto his stomach and hitches one knee up on the mattress. He gathers a pillow beneath his head and turns his face to the side to rest on it, eyes closed. Naked and perfectly made, his body is spread open for me.

I want to lick and suck every inch of it. Bending forward, I take a tentative taste of his hole. My own ass clenches with the idea of what it must feel like to have a wet tongue inside it.

Drew stiffens and holds his breath. I lick him again, slower this time, and then run the tip of my tongue in a circle around his entrance. He releases his breath with a body-wracking shudder. "What are you doing?" he mumbles sleepily, but not unhappily.

Rimming him? I think?

I seal my lips over his hole and suck before darting my tongue through the tight opening, and he groans. "Fuck, Olivier…"

I'm drooling and leaking, more turned on than when I was sucking his cock. He smells so damn good. He tastes even better. I get this is filthy, and there's nothing dignified about having my tongue in someone's ass at all, but fuck, I love the way he's moaning and his hips are squirming. He humps the bed, and I grin as I make out with his surprisingly responsive ass.

"Jesus, fuck, Jesus… For someone with no marketable skills, you are so fucking good at everything."

"I'm pretty sure I could make a lot of money with my tongue," I say.

He lifts his hips like he wants more, and I give it to him. Lapping and licking and kissing and sucking, gathering my saliva and transferring it inside him with my tongue.

"What does it say about me that I could come from this?" he asks, but I assume it's rhetorical. Massaging his ass while I bury my face between his cheeks, I greedily make out with his hole, relishing every sound of suffering that escapes his mouth. I usually get high compliments on my oral talents. I've mastered cunnilingus, blow jobs, and yes, I'd love to see if I can make him come like this, but I'm not sure I can stand it. He's making me so hot I'm about to burst.

After one, final, lingering and slobbery kiss, I break away, dragging myself over him with my hands on his shoulders and sliding my cock easily inside. I still at the top of the first stroke as usual, waiting for us to adjust to that initial tight squeeze for me, and the stretch for him. We quake through the intense fit on simultaneous long groans. Reaching down, I grab him behind his bent knee, stretching him more and giving myself the leverage to fuck him the way I've been thinking about since the last time.

Rough with the frustration of not seeing him last night, smooth to keep him wanting more, and slow to make it last, because being inside him is fucking miraculous. He has the best ass. In well-fitting pants, it's epic, but naked, it's a marvel. It would make Michelangelo sob.

It makes me savage. God, it's ridiculous how much I want him. I legit don't know how to get enough. I want to apologize to his asshole for taking out all my angst on it, but the way it takes me, engulfs me, caresses me from the inside—I mean, it can hardly blame me.

I watch my cock sink into him again and again, and it gets me hotter—so hot, I swear I could heat the Met. "Drew, I…"

"Yeah, me too…"

"You're not even touching yourself."

"I don't need to when you're like this. It's so good."

Fuck."You're killing me."

He gets a new, more urgent grip on the pillow and buries his face in it, growling until his body jerks beneath me, his hole milking my cock in steady, rhythmic contractions.

I lose it—absolutely fucking lose my shit—and I thrust through my bursting orgasm, pumping him full of a heavy, seemingly endless load of hot cum. "Oh, God!"

"Shh!" he hisses.

Fuck. Did I yell? "Shit," I grit out, the orgasm draining my balls until they're aching with pulses they can no longer deliver on, and I collapse on top of Drew.

He's panting heavily. A sheen of sweat coats his back, his shoulders, his neck, all simultaneously covered in chill bumps. I run my hands up his arms while I'm still stiff inside him and kiss his nape with an open mouth. He reaches back and shoves his hand into my hair. "We're not alone here, dickhead."

"Sorry," I whisper.

He gives the back of my head a pat and then lets his arm fall limply to the mattress. "It's okay. He works nights, too."

I slide off his back, and Drew flips over to face me. The heat radiating off both of us keeps us separated slightly.

"That was too good," he says.

I give him a cocky smirk. "Is there such a thing?"

"Yes," he grumbles, looking more depressed than elated.

"Does this have something to do with your shitty news?" I ask.

"I have to leave New York," he says, the words detonating in the space between us like one of those hidden landmines he mentioned.

I let the words sink in a moment while I chew the inside of my lip and stare at him. He's watching closely for my reaction. I wonder if he's expecting something in particular. "Explain," I say softly.

"Eric moved out. Silas is moving out. Chris found some place to stay—I can't afford this town."

I slide my hand over the one he has resting on the mattress. "Blackmail me. I'll pay."

His eyes close in what looks like complete defeat.

"When?" I ask.

"Couple weeks."

What?

I need to be cool here, but I have no clue how to be. A couple of weeks? That sounds an awful lot like two weeks to me. "Let me do something," I say.

"It's been a long time coming. It was a mistake coming here in the first place."

"Look—" I force myself to swallow, a sense of urgency, and something not unlike panic tightening my chest and squeezing the words out. "I get that you're not anemic, androgynous New York model material, but you're fucking gorgeous, Drew. You can get work here. It just might not be the kind of work you had in mind when you came."

"I'm thirty years old. Have you looked around this town? I'm old news. And unless I wanna live in fucking Jersey and commute to my fabulous job as a doorman, I don't see another option."

"But, like, where are you gonna go?"

"Home for a while. Take some time. Figure out what's next."

I can't speak. My throat is officially closed. I don't like this. This is no fucking good, and I'm actually scared. He's one of my only allies—the only person outside of Elodie and my family who knows what I'm dealing with, who accepts it and sort of even supports me. Not that I'm trying to make this all about me—obviously he's miserable—but still. This isn't okay. "I don't want you to go."

"You'll be all right. Guy like you." He smirks and rolls onto his back, his hand slipping away from mine.

I'm not touching that comment right now. "Is leaving what you want?"

"I can safely say that almost nothing that's happened in the last twelve years has been what I want."

The only thing keeping me from being butt hurt at that comment is he qualified it with "almost." Which is also why I don't stop to think about it too hard, because I'm pretty sure when he tried to strangle me, he didn't have fucking me in mind, therefore, this wasn't what he wanted either.

And that's what happens when I think about something too hard. "You don't want help," I say, and it comes out dark. "You want to go."

"I just want to sleep right now."

"Fuck you," I say quietly.

"That's not fair, Peach."

"Don't call me that."

He sighs.

I sit up and reach for my shirt, hanging on by a sleeve at the edge of the bed. He grabs my arm and pulls me back. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to go either."

"What fucking difference does it make?"

"If it doesn't make a difference, then just stay," he says.

"Stop fucking acting like you don't get it," I snap at him, and he lets go of me.

As I'm turning my shirt right side out, he starts in with a spew of uncharacteristic word vomit. "I do get it. I like this. I even like you. I don't want to just take off, but the writing's on the wall in big red letters, and it basically says, get the fuck out, Drew. You and I weren't supposed to happen, and you're fucking getting married anyway. It's not like either one of us can have a boyfriend. My family would never speak to me again, and you'd be fucked. I think even you can acknowledge that no matter how good the sex is, it's not worth it."

Ouch. "Let me repeat—Fuck. You." I get out of bed and whip on my pants, then stand straight, my hair shoved back from my forehead while I pull at it from the roots as I search the floor for my other shoe.

He's sitting up. "I didn't say you're not worth it."

"Very much implied," I mumble, but the room is small, so of course he hears me.

"Am I worth it to you?" he challenges.

I glare at him. There is only one correct answer to that question, but the consequences are dire, and I can't tell if he's asking out of vanity or whether he really gives a shit.

"How am I supposed to know if you're worth it if you're gone?"

He presses his lips together before sucking in a breath and dropping his head.

Goddamnit, I'm the one who's supposed to be hurt here, but I hate seeing him like this. "Fuck, Drew." I climb back on the bed until I'm kneeling in front of him. I plant my hands firmly on his shoulders. "Look at me."

He shakes his head.

"Drew."

He looks up at me with wet, bloodshot eyes. It nearly breaks me. "Do you like me? Really?" I whisper.

He nods.

"I like you, too. Let me help you. Let me cover a month of rent. That's it. One fucking month. And I know this probably sounds obnoxious to you, but it's a Venmo transaction to me. I won't offer anything else unless you ask but take this one goddamn thing so I can give you an answer to your question properly."

"I can cover about a third of it," he says, and my chest loosens slightly.

"Great." I cup his face and kiss his mouth. "Even better."

To my surprise he wraps his arms around me. "I need you to understand something," he says into my hair. "I'm only doing this for you."

I don't respond. I can't. My heart is doing something very strange in my chest. Something it's literally never done before, and I can only describe as painful. I kiss him again since I have zero words, but if I had to pick two on pain of death, they would be these:

Thank God.