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Spicy
Chapter 8 of "Where There's Heat"
Brian and Justin's POV
Justin
“You like Indian?”
God, he scared the shit out of me.
I startle every time he sneaks up on me like that. He just thinks I’m just jumpy – doesn’t know the half of it.
“Food?” I raise my eyebrows when I’ve composed myself.
He rolls his eyes, “Yes, Indian food.”
“Yeah, a lot. I love spicy food.” I try not to smile. I know exactly what’s going to happen. This seems to be becoming something of a ritual with us. At least twice a week for the month I’ve been working here, we go through this exact same routine.
He bumps into me in the hall and asks if I like some variety of ethnic food. I say yes (I always say yes.) Then he asks if I want to join him at ‘this great little place’ (they’re always great little places, aren’t they?) I say sure.
We’ll go, we’ll talk, we’ll eat, we might have coffee, we’ll cut the bullshit and go back to his place (to no one’s surprise my first New York apartment is actually a refrigerator box in a rat-infested alley – so it’s always his place.) We’ll fuck. We’ll fuck some more. We’ll sleep.
Then we’ll wake up and pretend that it never happened.
**
He puts the key in the door and pushes it open with his foot, his hands full with my neck and ass.
“Fuck,” he mutters as he tries not to break contact with my lips while shoving us into his apartment. We stumble in the dark, down the hall to his bedroom. I know the way by now, even walking backwards in the dark while my boss tears off my clothes and feeds on my mouth. I fall back into his huge bed. He drops his pants and then slides on top of me, rubbing our crotches together and leaving wet trails over my skin as his tongue heads back up toward my mouth.
I’ve kissed a few men in my life, more than a few actually. Brian puts them all to shame. A couple weeks into this thing, whatever the fuck it is, I realized that I must be a pretty good kisser cause I can make Brian pant and sigh with a flick of my tongue. Lately, I’ve become convinced that I must be the Casanova of kissing, cause he just never wants to stop.
“You taste like Tandoori Chicken,” I laugh when he pulls away to search for a condom. He gives me an amused look as his teeth tear the foil wrapper. I suppose that move doesn’t get old.
My legs fall open and my mouth starts to water the way it always does when his eyes get heavy and dark. I try to swallow and I can’t. I try to inhale but my chest is too heavy. It’s this freaky thing he does to me. It’s this feeling like I can’t catch my breath. It’s like I’m losing my virginity every time I’m with Brian.
I want sex to be this way forever.
He rocks in me with the speed and deftness that define him. His lips trace my ribs and settle on a place somewhere between the fourth and fifth on the left side of my body. His mouth is clamped there, sucking me softly, anchoring him to me (as if the eight inches of thick, hard and hungry springing from between his legs and splitting me in two doesn’t do that already.) His lips suck on that skin again and again, a little harder with each thrust. I feel the blood rise to meet his demanding mouth and I visualize the hickey, what a word – but that is exactly what he’s giving me, beginning to form on my torso.
“Fuck,” I mutter because it hurts. All of it.
Then he almost stops and I’m not even sure how I know that, but I press one hand to the back of his head and one into his hip to insist he finish what he’s started.
And he does.
Brian
I tell myself ‘if he wasn’t so fucking tight’ and then I tell myself ‘if he didn’t have such a perfect ass’ and some nights it’s ‘if he wasn’t so good at sucking cock’ but if I’m honest with myself (and really even that is rare) there are a million reasons I keep asking the kid to come back for more. Though, there are a million and one reasons we should stop.
Yet, I can’t find it in me to do the math.
He’s good at his job, great actually, and he’s even better in bed. If I were looking for a complication in my life, Justin would be a decent one. But, I’m not.
I am not looking for any complications.
“Oh. Fuck. Me.” He mutters as I slide into him. I watch his thick fingers clasp the sheet as his hips rise up and his head rolls back. It’s hot and tight and a little familiar in here. If I did boyfriends – hell if I even did repeats – I’m sure this would be a good feeling, a welcome feeling. But, it’s not. It’s a feeling that haunts me at night and leaves me pacing while he sleeps. I’ll watch over him at 5 in the morning for the 10th, or is it the 12th time, and be so fucking angry with myself for letting this happen again that I’ll feel numb from it.
Totally numb.
***
Justin
The hickey is red and purple and even a little blue when I inspect it in the mirror as I dry off after my shower. I never got anything like this even when I was sixteen and necking constantly with my first boyfriend.
I also have fingerprints on my hips and scratch marks down my back. And there’s a bruise blooming high on the inside of my right thigh, but I can’t be sure that was him.
Brian walks in to start his shower and catches me examining my naked body in his bathroom mirror.
He smirks.
I blush.
“Uh, sorry about that,” he nods at the hickey. The Hickey.
“Not a problem,” I smile slightly and continue to dry off. I should have gone home last night. I really, really should have gone home last night, or actually this morning. Think we were done sometime after 4. But, his bed is really warm and really comfortable. And it has him in it when I wake up.
He’d hate me for how much I like that part of it – the waking up with him.
This is like the eleventh time I’ve woken up at my boss’ apartment after a night of incredible sex. Shit, incredible doesn’t even begin to do it justice. It’s fucking earth shattering and world rocking and set-your-skin-on-fire-till-you’re-crazy kind of incredible. And really I guess that’s why he can’t stop asking me to exotic dinners and fucking me senseless into the wee hours of the morning. He must feel it too. How good we are together.
But, part of me needs it to stop.
We’ve had the talk. The ‘I’m your boss, not your lover, you don’t own me, I fuck who I want, you won’t get promoted for giving good head so get the fuck over yourself’ tirade.
I’ve heard it no less than nine times already. I’m fine with it. I didn’t go looking for a boyfriend. I just wanted a job and after I met him I really wanted the fuck too. I mean, he’s amazing, in the bed and the boardroom. I’d have been stupid not to say yes when he offered me the job, and even stupider when he asked me to dinner.
And if he’s going to keep offering, I’m going to keep accepting. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean a thing.
And yet, the way he smiles at me in meetings sometimes. The way he sighs after he comes inside of me. The way he slides his loofah over my back in the shower and talks about confidential office politics while he does it. The way he takes me to dinners at his favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants and walks me through the best areas of the city. The way he looks into my eyes while he fucks me hard enough to break me.
I got the job and the fuck and that’s exactly what Brian didn’t want.
Frankly, he doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who lets this sort of thing slide.
This has to stop before he fires me, or worse…hates me.
There’s only one little problem. I think I love him.
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