28. Matthew

28

MATTHEW

I flop onto my back when the bathroom door closes behind Fischer. Tying off the full condom, I toss it aside, hoping I remember to deal with it later, but my head's a fucking mess.

That was extreme even for me. Not the fingering when he was asleep part, though I mean—that too—but all of it. His spine is covered in a nearly straight line of hickeys. I fucked him until three a.m. I used him like a toy, and he let me . He lay there and took it—and took it…and took it.

I swallow hard, my stomach clenching at the fresh memory. He was everything I wanted. Everything I needed.

I get we're all, as humans, broken in some way. Everyone's fucked up by something. The thing is, I don't know if he's always—would I call that submissive? Or if the way he let me play with him was unique to our own twisted, possibly codependent dynamic.

No. Submissive doesn't fit. It felt more like he was containing me. Holding my attention fast and embodying temptation .

I rub at my face because the dots aren't quite connecting, and our future still hangs in the balance.

I check my phone and find a text from Maggie, which says she emailed the best photos of the tree. Interested in seeing them, I pull on some sweats and wander over to the couch where I use the coffee table as a desk most of the time. I open my laptop.

Damn, my sister takes good pictures. She'd been right about the time of day. All the colored glass is super saturated, and the clear pieces practically glitter. I text her.

These are perfect.

Maggie

You're awake?

Yeah. I have today off.

Maggie

Plans?

I can't think past the man in my shower, so my reply is vague.

Playing it by ear.

Maggie

Thanks for your help yesterday. Did you have fun with Fish? You two were acting like you hadn't seen each other in years.

Not sure how to respond to that.

Maggie

Just wondering if you had fun. Innocent question.

Somehow the disclaimer makes it feel less than.

Yep. We're all caught up.

Maggie

Cool.

Without anything to say to that, I like the message and go back to looking at the pictures, thinking about how I want to post them. A Reel maybe? I should hit up Fischer's assistant. He's supposedly good at social media.

Provided Fischer and I make it through the day.

Why am I doubting this? It's not like he's shutting down. Maybe I'm afraid all the time he's taking in the shower will wake him up from the fever dream?

That's when the bathroom door opens and the fresh smelling steam wafts out.

Fischer's dressed in what he wore over last night, but his hair is wet, and that somehow makes him infinitely hotter.

"Find everything you need?" I ask.

"Yeah." He wanders toward the tree again, barely sparing me a glance.

My gaze is drawn once again to his ass.

I'm completely obsessed with it, and I should check myself, but I can't bring myself to. I'm only contemplating how to get myself back inside it. I appreciate my solitude, but I am a twin, and I do require the frequent presence of another person. Namely in my bed.

After weeks of nameless hookups at the Plaza and then another week of total deprivation, last night had been— good . I hesitate to call it special because we both clearly had things we needed to get out of our system. He may feel thoroughly cleansed of this need that's been intruding in our relationship with increasing frequency, while I feel like I took a hit off a crack pipe, desperate for another.

He stops walking suddenly, making a noise of surprise and nearly stumbling over his cane.

I shoot up from the couch and rush over. Fuck. H e's barefoot . In an area I work with glass and metal. I swept, but even I know to tread lightly in the workshop. With shoes on. I curse my own carelessness and distraction for failing to warn him.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," I tell him, grabbing a dish rag from the counter and hurrying back to him. I glance at his foot, and it's fucking bleeding. Great. Like he doesn't have enough scars already. I go to his side and steer him in the opposite direction, but he halts us both.

"I don't want to get blood all over your floor."

Like I care. But if he cares… "Let me grab a chair. I'll fix it."

As a sculptor, I'm good at first aid on flesh wounds. I've got a nice kit, too, courtesy of my overbearing mother. I drag a chair from the kitchen table over to him and tell him to sit. I grab the first aid kit from one of my shelves and bring it over to him where I sit at his feet.

"Matty, I'm fine."

"You're bleeding. Just let me put a bandage on it."

As he lifts his bleeding foot up, out of the corner of my eye, I see the used condom on the floor and cringe at myself. Have I always been this big of a clusterfuck?

"Sorry," he says, as I set his foot on my lap.

" You are?"

"This is embarrassing."

I glance up at him, and he doesn't look merely embarrassed. He looks… pained .

"Does it hurt?"

"It's fine."

"Why are you making that face?" I ask.

"What face?"

"You look like you're hurting."

"I keep turning into your patient," he mutters.

"I don't think of you like that," I assure him.

His jaw clenches, and he looks toward the windows. I pluck the small shard of green bottle glass out of the ball of his left foot, dab it with hydrogen peroxide, put a gauze square on it, and then cover that with a large bandaid. Though I'm done with first aid, I'm not quite done touching him. Giving the undamaged part of his foot a squeeze, my hands encircle his ankle, caressing him and studying his face as he turns to gaze down at me. "How do you think of me?" he asks.

I don't know any more. It's a lot of love of the deep friendship type mixed with lust of the richest potency. "Not as some helpless thing."

"You sure about that?" he asks as he takes his foot away from me and sets it on the floor. I sit back, leaning on my hands, and stare up at him.

"What were you thinking about in the shower?" I ask.

"The way I just kind of…laid there…"

I narrow my gaze, my cock firming up again just thinking about it.

"Are all your lovers so passive?" he asks.

"What does it matter what anyone else is like? I wanted you ."

"In the shower, I thought about how it might have been a disappointment."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Is there a way to convince you it wasn't?"

"I don't know. I guess we'll see."

" How will we see?" This is what I really want to know. What's next?

"Depends. When am I gonna see you again?" he asks.

"I'm not busy today. Are you?"

He shakes his head, then hedges. "Well…I have work to do…"

"Do you need to go home?" I ask.

"At some point. You know I don't like being too far from my laptop for too long."

"But you're off tomorrow, too…unless I've got your schedule wrong."

"What are you saying?" he asks, effectively tossing the ball back into my court.

"Why are we dancing around this?" I ask, dropping the pretense. "Do I want to keep fucking you? Yes. Now it's your turn to say if you want to keep fucking me. And be honest."

His face softens, and I sense it all around us, his guard dropping. "It was so good, Matthew."

"Yeah?"

"But I can only speak for myself. And I know I got overwhelmed."

I smile softly up at him. "That was my favorite part. You liked it?"

He grimaces and nods, like it makes him cringe to admit it.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"It held your interest?"

"Seriously?"

He shrugs. "If we're gonna dissect it…yeah."

"We don't have to dissect it," I tell him. "But you're making it sound like it wasn't what you had in mind."

"Like I mentioned, I've never been in that…role before."

"Did it feel wrong?" I challenge.

"No…"

I get a flash of something—one of those random inspirations I mentioned to him. It comes at me like a vision that seems so real it's got me glancing around for my sketch pad and charcoals.

My heart rate picks up, and I tell him to be still. "I have an idea."

"Can I have some coffee first?"

"No."

I practically crawl to my nightstand and grab my supplies before returning to sit on the floor in front of him.

"You're drawing me?"

"Yeah. Give me ten minutes. It's just a rough sketch. Then if you want coffee, I'll find you some."

He sighs like it's an imposition, but he stays still, one hand still on his cane and the other dangling at his side in the armless dining chair.

I get the basic outline on paper, but when I switch pencils to a duller tip, I add details and shadow. It's not important that I copy the composition of him in the chair exactly as it exists. It's more important that the vision doesn't disappear before I get the image on paper.

I use my thumb to smudge the charcoal to add definition to his body. With a finer point, I try to capture his hair and the half-dried waves of it, totally untamed. And as a final touch, I draw out his scars, the ones I know from memory and by touch.

When the draft is done, I show it to him, and he hisses through his teeth before raising a hooded gaze to me.

"That's what you see?" he asks.

"It's how the muse thing works. I told you I'd give you an example. This is the what if ."

"Right."

I can't help but notice he's breathing heavier. "What do you think?" I ask.

"Do you want that?"

"The better question is do you want that? Because I'll try anything."

"Good to know."

"You think you could sit for a portrait like that?" I ask.

He studies the sketch of himself, naked, his arms tied back, ankles lashed to the chair legs. Among those changes to what's right in front of me, I added an arched neck and a splatter of cum on his chest. A spent cock resting on his abs.

"Is this what you think would happen if I did?"

I grin. "A guy can dream. I claim artistic license."

"Well, I'm not sure it wouldn't," he says. Meaning he could come just from being tied up with me staring at him intently.

"I sort of imagine you fighting it," I say.

"I don't know why you would. I think you saw how much fight I have in me last night."

I shake my head at that. "You were perfect. But in terms of this, maybe we put it to the test sometime."

"Maybe we do it right now," he says.

"Does my horny art turn you on, princess?"

He answers with a low, rumbling, "Yes."

"I think you might be giving me too much credit. If I had you in a chair like that, I don't think there's any way I could keep my hands off you long enough to paint a picture."

"This has been a long conversation," he says.

"You miss me?"

"I always miss you when you're not right here."

I move to my knees and put my hands on his thighs. He lowers his face to mine and caresses my cheek.

"We don't have to have sex again if it's too much."

"We do, or I'll think I fucked something up," he says in the tone of an admission.

I run my hands up his legs and squeeze. "Better?"

"Not yet. I didn't know you were into tying people up."

"I've never tried it," I tell him honestly. "I'm not very patient. Or good with knots."

"It's a hot picture though."

" I thought so. But you came out here all dressed like you're trying to leave."

"I didn't know what you'd want."

"I want you. What do you want, Fischer?"

"You," he whispers. "Wanting me."

"But you have that."

"Prove it."