I open my eyes. End credits are rolling. I’ve missed most of the movie and there’s drool across my cheek. I turn and find you watching me, aghast. My head is in your lap. How did I get here?
“Wasn’t I facing the other way?” I mumble. There’s a bump under my head; the remote, I guess. I reach to move it, but it moves on its own. Your body tenses and a hiss escapes you. I realise and I freeze. “Oh.”
“You, ah, move around in your sleep,” you say. “A lot.” You’re frozen too.
Lucky Craig’s away for work. He’d give us no end of shit for this. My housemate’s room and rent and bills are yours for the month. I thought you’d take his spot on the armchair too, but you’ve always been more comfortable on the couch.
The credits finish. In reality, a second passes, but it seems to take forever. It’s so quiet, I can hear the tap drip in the kitchen. Should I be embarrassed? We’re not teenagers anymore. But we’ve never been this close before and my skin is burning.
“Should I get up?” I ask. I’m exposed and awkward, unsure of where this goes. What would it mean to you, if I sat up? Should we pretend this never happened? The questions in a question.
Your mouth moves, silently at first. Then you say: “You don’t have to. I mean, if you don’t want to.”
You look in my eyes and I wonder if you can tell I’ve thought about us being here. I wonder if you know I borrow the clothes you leave behind when you crash after a big night; if you know I know they smell the way you do up close. With my face pressed against you and my belly in knots.
Fuck it. I don’t want to keep wondering.
“I’ll stay a bit,” I say. I smile and move my head, press a little harder; you breathe deep. “Hey, I don’t have to be anywhere tonight. Do you?”
“Nowhere,” you shake your head. “Nothing planned.”
“Can I take this?” I ask. I tug at the waistband of your shorts. A wispy tuft peeks out from the gap between your shirt and underwear.
You look like you’re about to say something; either ask me to stop or to keep going. I wait to feel your hands on the back of my head, wait to hear you tell me, direct, to put your dick in my mouth and suck it until you come. But that’s only how I imagine you. You’re too polite for that. You just nod and wait for me.
You lift your hips and I slip your shorts off. The cut of your v-line surprises me. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen you countless times, shirt off, passed out drunk exactly where I’m lying now. But not like this, I suppose. Not where you’re inches from my face with your eyes on me and your abdomen rising and falling like unbreaking waves.
I take you in my hand. You’re hard, but your skin is soft and I’m running up and down the length of you. Your hair tickles the back of my hand, tickles my cheek as I move around and tease you. A clear bead forms at the tip of your cock. It glistens. I look at you. Your hands grip the armrest and the cushion.
“Can I take this?” I ask, a little shy, a little reluctant. It’s the best I can do to hide how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about you holding my head and neck while you drive into my throat.
“Mm,” you mumble, then: “Yes.” Then more clearly, “Yes.”
Then you’re in my mouth, glans rolling over my tongue like a warm marble with skin textures and a dip I lick but can’t squeeze into. I’m running all over your tip, journeying the whole length down the ridge along the underside. And all the way back up again.
With a hand cupping you, massaging the flesh under your cock, teasing you behind them with a light tickle of my fingernails, it’s all I can do to keep from swallowing you whole. You taste clean and smell like the bar of Cussons by the shower. I close my eyes and inhale you.
I reach for your hand and place it on my head. I wonder if you’ll grab my hair and push into me. But your touch is so gentle. Are you shy or just being respectful? Your thumb strokes my cheek and runs along the press of my lips on your shaft. I shiver in its wake.
I shift. I’m slick and sliding in my panties. They’re cotton. They’ll be soaked through in a minute, but that’s not where I want you yet. Not yet. I’m on my knees and pulling your hips until I feel you in the back of my throat. I draw a breath and pull you deeper. Your fingers brush my neck.
We stay like this a moment, then I slide you out and get to work on you. There’s a rhythm to it, your rhythm, and I’m dancing with you, one hand grasping the flesh of your inner thigh, the other at your base with my thumb and forefinger ringed around you. Your breathing quickens. It turns me on. I quicken too. I close my eyes and soon, my world is darkness and your panting and the wet noise of your dick pumping in and out.
You come in a hot spray inside me. My mouth fills and I swallow. It fills again. I swallow again and melt as you melt deeper into the folds of the couch. I watch your eyes roll under their lids and the cushions devour you.
While you recover, I get up to brush my teeth. It only takes a second, at least it seems, but when I return to the living room, you’re on your feet, doing up the button on your shorts. Your cheeks are pink and you barely meet my gaze.
“I… I’m sorry,” you manage. You tuck your phone and keys into your pocket. “I have to go.”
I blink. You’re a whirlwind at the door.
“Travis!” I call after you. What happened? Where are you going? Did I do something wrong?
The questions in a question.
But the door shuts. The tap drips in the kitchen. What just happened?
Then my phone beeps. It’s Marcus.
“Hey, Amy, want to hang out?” his message says.
Netflix recommends a love story. I turn it off. I’m angry, I think. Beneath the mint, I still taste you.