30. Matthew

30

MATTHEW

I f I hadn't made Fischer leave, I would have either suffocated him, or suffocated somewhere inside him. Even still, the kiss I gave him at the door as he was on his way out threatened to totally derail me. He just looked so… sad . Like a kicked puppy. Or more like a puppy I was dropping off at a kennel with no understanding of when I'd return to get him. I swear to God, I almost asked him to move in with me.

He is every single one of my triggers—both bad and good—all wrapped up in a sexy, mirror-eyed, wild-haired package that I want with a ferocity I've never wanted anything. But I realized I'd literally tear him apart if he stayed another night. I would have been too much, and something deep, deep inside me is screaming not to fuck this up. To let him breathe. Give him a chance to save himself.

I send him a text five minutes after he leaves, when I'm sure he's on his way back to Manhattan—a long rambling explanation about how this is necessary and important, and we need to at least pretend to go on about our business and live functioning lives.

His response is, "Whatever."

It doesn't take long to realize I was too hasty. Letting him leave was a stupid idea. Not being with him is a waste of time. I try to mitigate my distress by cleaning my apartment, doing a better job on the workshop floor with a mop. Afterward, I work on an idea for a new sculpture, inspired by the sketch of Fischer in the chair I'd done earlier. It would test my glass and soldering skills, and it'd be a hell of a lot edgier than the tree, but it's clicking with me—like maybe I'm finally tapping into my artistic voice. It's niche, but it's far more interesting than the Tiffany lamp rainbow piece in my loft. I sink into an internet rabbit hole involving Mt. Vesuvius, brothels, and all the people encased in ash in Pompeii.

I also do an extensive search to see if someone else has already done what I'm thinking about doing. I have one recurring nightmare where a snide gallery owner calls my work derivative, and that particular rejection would be my own personal kiss of death. I'd put away all my pencils, paints and etching tools and throw myself in the East River if someone ever said that about any of my pieces.

It's why I can't get the Tiffany lamp comparison out of my mind. Once it occurred to me as a reference, I haven't been able to shake it.

When my focus scatters as a result of exhaustion, I know I need to sleep. I hesitate as I contemplate the bed. It's going to smell like him, which means I'm going think about him—hard. And knowing I'll be thinking of him makes me start thinking about him until I need to know what he's doing, and I call.

His voice is raspy when he answers.

"Did I wake you?" It's one in the morning.

"No. But I think my vocal cords took some damage today."

"Jesus."

"It's fine."

He always says that. It's fine. He's fine. We're fine. But is anything really fine?

"Miss me?" he asks.

"Yeah," I admit too easily.

"Told you."

"You did."

"If you come over now, you'll be closer to work tomorrow," he says.

"If I come over now, you won't have a voice or a functioning asshole tomorrow."

"You really know your way around seducing a man."

I laugh. "Is it working?"

"Too well. Hang on."

There's a brief pause on his end and then my phone lights up with a text.

"A dick pic?" I chuckle. "Fischer, you shouldn't have."

He's in those navy flannel pants, his hand fisted around the base of his beautiful cock, all hard and shiny tipped for me.

"Started getting hard when I saw your name on the screen."

Fuck, that's hot.

"Are you jerking it?"

"You want me to?" he asks.

"Assuming that's a contemporaneous picture, what else are you planning to do with it?"

"I could save it for you."

"I don't know. It looks pretty needy."

"Mmm…" he rumbles, and I picture him sinking back into his chair. He's at his dining table, working. I could tell from the picture. "It's not good without you here."

He's the fucking worst . He knows I can't resist him. Can't resist being wanted, much less needed. "I don't want to interrupt you. I know you're busy."

"Please, like you could distract me from all my important work?"

I can't resist being dared, either. Fucker. Maybe he gets off on being needed, too.

"What are you working on?" I ask, palming my own full cock.

"My book."

"The not so thrilling political thriller?"

He chuckles. "It's non-fiction, Matty."

"And how's it coming?"

"Strangely, it's been hard to concentrate."

I grin. "How hard?"

" Rock hard ."

I lick my lips and stick my hand down my pants. "You should add a sex scene."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, surely there's some horny congressman who needs a good dicking you could write about."

"Or tie to a chair, see how he fares."

"I love it when you talk nerdy."

"What was nerdy about that?" he asks, defensive.

"See how he fares . Nerdy. Bet you're wearing those hot glasses, too."

"I am. They're hot?"

" So fucking hot."

"I'm learning so much about myself. What else do you want to tell me?"

"You want to hear more about your big brain?" I ask.

"I want to hear about the first time you wanted to fuck me."

I lift my brows and run my fingertips over my balls, letting them fall heavily with the light slap of flesh on flesh. There were so many times—so similar in their origins. "You were asleep, rubbing your ass on my cock."

"I was not."

He did it all the time. "You were sleeping. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

"When was this?"

"You want a date?"

"No, just…roughly."

"Roughly about a week after you started partial weight bearing."

"And did you ever want to do it after that?" he asks.

"Every night," I tell him.

"Shut up."

"I wanted it, princess. I always wanted it."

"How'd you handle that without saying anything?'

"I didn't know you had sex with guys, first of all, and second I jerked off a lot while you were asleep."

"You're gonna make me fucking come," he says, his voice dangerously low and rough.

"Wait," I say suddenly.

He takes a sharp breath. "Why?"

"Wait for me." I stand up and close my laptop. "I'll be there soon."

Because it turns out, I can't stand the idea of him coming without me.

It's just shy of two in the morning when I slip through the service entrance and hit the button for the elevator. The doorman on duty, a relief guy named Darius, hears me, and I give him a chin nod when he comes around the corner. "Just going up to check on my brother. He's having a rough night. Eleven-seventeen."

"Sorry to hear that, man. I didn't know you had a brother here."

"Yeah. He's fancy," I say. "His friend hooked me up with the job."

"It's all about who you know, right? I have a cousin who works up the street at Gramercy."

When the elevator opens, Darius wishes me a nice night, and I take a deep breath, hoping all the truths I told obscure the fact that this is a basic booty call. I use my key to let myself in to Fischer's apartment and find him exactly where I pictured him. Behind all his screens, glasses on, but with his cock nicely tucked away.

"Were you able to stop?"

He grins when he sees me coming and stands up. "Yeah, but what took you so long? You find blue balls attractive?"

"They'll match mine, at least."

I come around the table so he doesn't have to go far, and we collide in a kiss. I take his glasses off and set them on the table. I'd love to bend him over it, pull down his pants and make him come all over his legal pads, but I'm afraid we'd break something. "Time to get naked," I tell him.

"Here?" he asks.

"Here. The balcony. The kitchen. But I was thinking bed. For your comfort."

"Aren't you sweet," he says, running his hands up my arms. "But if you want to fuck me on the balcony, I'll make it work."

His voice sounds worse now than it did when we were on the phone. I rub his throat with the pad of my thumb. "Does it hurt?"

"If you keep worrying about hurting me, nobody's ever gonna get what they want."

"Are you saying everything I do hurts you?"

"I'm saying I wanted you here for a reason. If I wanted gentle, I'd go to the club and ask for it."

The comment pulls me up short. I scowl. "You're still going to the club?"

He cocks his head to the side, regarding me carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"How often do you usually have sex?" I ask, letting the conversation take an awkward turn.

"A few times a week. Your turn."

"No. Wait," I say, not finished yet. "What's a few? Three? Five?"

"Depends."

"Then how ‘bout last week?"

"Zero," he says.

"What about the night you came home with Ravenna?"

"I sent her back to her apartment. Nothing happened."

"And at the club…were you a one and done guy or did you go a few rounds?"

"Also…depends. Do you want an inquisition like this? Honestly?"

Honestly? No. But maybe it's a good idea to know what we're dealing with. "I'm an at least every other day, few rounds type of person."

He nods slowly. "Okay. Why are we talking about this?"

"Because unless it's a random hook-up, I tend to be monogamous," I tell him.

"That's fine," he says.

"I swear to God, Fischer, if you say something's fine one more time?—"

He laughs. "What's wrong with fine? Fine is good."

"Fine is whatever. I need to hear what you want ."

He gives me a stern look. Imperious, even. "Then why don't you tell me what you have to offer."

I arch a brow. "Am I auditioning?"

"If you want me to stay out of Gibson's club, what's your offer?"

I swear to God, if he wasn't so hot—if I didn't love him so fucking much?—

I catch my breath. Whoa. I need to slow down with that kind of thinking. We've spent one night together. Still, our relationship has leapt the fence, leaving behind "friendly" or "brotherly." I circle back to his question, which I hope he means as a joke. If it was hard to share him before I'd been inside him, it's flat out impossible now. "I definitely want you to stay out of the club. Unless I'm with you."

"Okay…" He says with narrowed eyes like he needs more incentive than that.

I'm exactly desperate enough to give it to him. "I'll delete all my dating apps."

"Keep talking."

"I'll come whenever you call. Unless you come to me first."

"No matter how often?"

"If it's even remotely physical possible, I'll make it happen."

His expression softens into something infinitely more vulnerable, and that —that's my kryptonite. "Promise?"

I finally let my shoulders relax. "Yeah."

"So, we're skipping friends with benefits," he says. "You sure that's what you want?"

"Fuck, Fischer, I'm asking what you want. I just want you. I admit it, okay? You're the one with shit to lose."

"What do I have to lose?" he asks, looking genuinely confused.

"Women?"

His smile is soft and surprised. He threads his fingers through the hair on the side of my head. "I've had plenty of women. What I haven't had nearly enough of is you ."

Pure, unfiltered relief floods my veins. That and a healthy dose of extreme lust. "I swear I'll make up for it if you feel like you're missing out on anything."

"You sound a little desperate, Matty."

I'm way past desperate. I grab him by the waistband and tug him close to me, banding an arm around his back so he doesn't lose his balance. "You like me desperate," I say, hoping that's true.

"I do. It's cute." His gaze lingers on mine a moment before he clears his throat and gets serious again. "Now give me your phone."

"Not right now." I need to kiss him.

He pulls his head away. "Right now."

"Fuck, Fischer."

I'm whining, but he won't budge. I dig my phone out of my pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. He swipes directly to my folder of dating apps and starts deleting them one by one. It takes a few minutes. Minutes where our cocks are smashed against each other growing thicker and harder. Mine even gets wet.

Impatient, I lean in and start pressing kisses to his neck. He has to hold the phone at arm's length to see anything on the screen without his glasses, and that just gives me more time and surface area to work with as he stretches and strains to make me his "special friend."

Once he's finally done, he lets out a sigh, tosses my phone on the table and grabs hold of my face. I seize the moment and kiss him. His lips part, opening against mine. His tongue moves in quickly. I sink in, taking hold of his collar to keep him close as I work my tongue deeper and deeper into him. It's electric. I'm instantly hooked all over again. I can't believe I thought letting him go home was a good idea. I won't make that mistake again. I need to get this man into a bed, and I need to keep him there.

He turns his head to take a breath, and I kiss his jaw. Our hips grind. I want out of these pants.

"You're dangerous," he says.

"I'm safe, I promise."

"Not for me."

"You want to stop?"

I'll die if he wants to stop.

"I can't stop," he admits. "That's what's dangerous."

I'm not complaining. "I need you so fucking bad. Can you feel it? Can you feel how much?" I'm breathless. Aching.

His mouth smashes into mine again even as I unbutton my khakis, and he works open the zipper. I'm in flames as I plunge my tongue further into him. His groan goes straight to my nuts, and now I'm the one whimpering as the pressure in my pelvis takes on a new urgency.

I slide the hand I have on his collar to the back of his neck and re-angle my mouth, wanting as much of him as I can take. I don't think I'll ever be able to burrow as deeply inside him as I need, but I refuse to stop trying.

He gets greedy, slipping his hand into my boxer briefs and freeing my cock. He grips it firmly and mindlessly thumbs the tip where precum is pulsing out in erratic spurts. I'm as wet as a girl.

" Matthew …" He yanks his head back, looks down at my dick then back up at me, pupils blown black.

"You okay?" I ask, anxiety spiking. I'm too much. I know this, and maybe now he does, too.

He nods, letting his forehead fall to rest against mine. Our breaths are harsh against each other's mouths.

"I can't slow down with you," I tell him.

"I don't know…" he whispers. "What if I'm not enough?"