“But my mom has always called your mom my auntie Francine,” I insisted, flushing. “Always.”
“They’re like sisters,” Marcel elaborated. “They grew up together, went to school together, got into all kinds of trouble together. They were never apart before your mom moved to California. We’re ‘family,’ but we’re not related.” More laughter. “Is that what’s been stopping you?”
Now I laughed too, relief washing over me as if he’d upended a bucket full of it over my head. “Stopping me?” I teased. “Look who’s full of himself all of a sudden. ‘Stopping me’ from doing what?”
His eyes were suddenly—finally—clear, and they sparkled as he wove my hair through his fingers and pulled me to him. “From doing this,” he said. His lips were warm, insistent against mine, as he kissed me. Once. Twice. And then a third time until I melted like chocolate into his arms.
Warm as he’d made my heart and my lips, the rest of me was freezing. After standing waist deep in icy fog—first arguing, then doing the super-opposite of arguing—as chill winter afternoon lapsed into black frozen night, I was gonna need a warm-up before we proceeded to get reacquainted. Marcel filled two mugs while I fired up the shower, and shortly we were wrapped in nothing but steam, my belly ablaze with brandy. And with a frenzied need for Marcel over which I was quite content to have no control.
And yet suddenly time’s great container had broken, filling the shower cubby like amber in a fossil mold, and our every movement was tantalizingly unhurried; every kiss, every touch, every laugh to be savored at our leisure, each moment another gift to open and share with wide-eyed wonder. Strolling through town in jeans and sweaters we cut similar figures: both tall, both fit, both in need of a haircut. But here against each other we delighted in unexpected contrasts. Where I was pale, he was golden; where I was solid and ridged, his muscles were supple and stealthy; where I had had to gym my body into submission, his was naturally responsive, swathed in an inviting softness. His belly was flat, but protected by a thin layer of give that begged to be nibbled at; the whisper of width in his hips was borne out in a ripe pear of an ass so juicy that a long, loamy taste was more than I could have resisted; his pert pecs came to two points, the caramel peak of each a succulent mouthful—it’s no wonder he’s a good cook, I mused, inhabiting a body that was itself such a bountiful feast.
His mouth was full and delicious, his ass as plump and tasty, and with my lips on one and my delirious hands on the other, my cock soon demanded satisfaction. Gently, I turned Marcel against the wall so that he could offer himself up to me, and gently did he extract himself from beneath me and pin me to the wall. I whimpered, and he closed his eyes with a simple, non-negotiable tilt of his chin; not yet.
His hands roved my body like a search and rescue team, leaving no ridge unconquered, no cavern unexplored. He prostrated himself, rapturous ass in the air, to relish the taste and texture of every one of my toes, and then worked his way with excruciating tenderness up my legs, the better to feast on my balls. First one in his mouth, then the other, then both together as he licked at my taint, each gluttonous moan from him sending another wave of desire bouncing through my impossibly swollen rod until the ache of it pushed another whimper out of me. I was opening my mouth to grovel, to implore him to take me inside him, at which precise moment he swallowed my throbbing cock whole. I almost fainted with delirium, and when he set about my shaft with his tongue, I hollered and moaned and sang praises of sexual need that would have shut down even the most fervent tent revival, but Marcel would not be distracted; he continued his work on my bone until the only thing left to do was suck the marrow from it. Flash after flash of ecstasy convulsed my body until I was sure my physical form would disintegrate from the strain of trying to contain it, and Marcel welcomed every drop I emptied into him and then rooted for more. Never had I known such euphoric release; never had I imagined such rapture.
Never had I been fucked before, and when Marcel turned my face to the wall and began to entreat my hole, I clenched in resistance. He continued to seek entry as he leaned against me, his mouth against my ear. His cock wasn’t particularly monstrous, and I was drenched in desire for him, but I’d been a top for the whole of my sexual career. I’d never had more than maybe two fingers up there before, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take him. We were communing on a spiritual level to which previous sexual experiences had never even alluded; surely he would understand. We’d just have to work up to it. I had all these excuses and more at the ready, knowing he would hear me and honor my wishes, and then he moved his mouth. The single word—Beau—rumbled up from a place deep inside him, and I felt rather than heard my name, so laden with need—with stark, base want—that I opened myself to him utterly. And he took me with tenderness. And with certainty. And with more force than I would have expected, shattering the blunt pain into glittering, greedy shards of pleasure. I howled for “more” as if it was the only word—of English, of French, of fucking Luxembourgish, which I didn’t even know
