The Muse's Undoing

I lock his body in place and grind against it. I work to fill up his mouth, overwhelm it, overtake it. The need that’s been burning inside me for weeks—years—unleashes itself on him in a kiss I can only describe as aggressively intense. There’s no room for breathing. There’s no room to escape. It’s just this now. Just us. Succumbing to the inevitable.

And fuck, it is so good.

I have an oral fixation about as impressive as the Empire State Building, and kissing Fischer satisfies it like nothing else ever has. I think I knew it would. I think that’s why I tried to warn him away. Because I know him. I know him better than I know anyone in the world, and I love him, too. So I knew no one could kiss him better than I could, and, if I’m not mistaken, he feels the same way about me. Or close enough.

His forehead smashes into mine as he pulls his lips away, drawing a deep, jagged breath. “Fuck.”

“Is that it?” I ask.

“Fuck,” he says again, lower, and then we’re right back to kissing. Hard. Slow. Deep.

Somehow, I’ve got his ass in my hand, and I’m using the hold to leverage myself in various ways. To grind our cocks, to keep our mouths sealed, to feel the thump of his heartbeat against my chest. We get wetter and sloppier, my need surging. The desire to know him more intimately takes over. I sink into him the best I can, using my tongue to draw moans and whimpers from his throat.

It’s not long before he’s digging his nails into my neck.

“Matty…” he groans into my mouth, and then his breath catches and his body shudders.

I stop kissing him just long enough to hear him say what I think he’s about to say. I need it.

“I’m gonna come.”

God, yes. I dive back into his mouth, his kiss chaotic as his orgasm rocks his lower body against mine. He grunts helplessly, and I hold him together while he falls completely apart. It’s the hottest thing ever. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m not usually?—”

“Shh…”

“Like I’m fucking fourteen…”

“It’s okay.” I kiss his neck while he rambles and recovers, sucking a mark into his skin, showing zero mercy and not giving a fuck who’ll be tasked with covering it up so he can look like a proper anchorman.

“Matty,” he’s gasping. “Matty…oh God… “

I soften my kiss and slow down, loosening my hold on his hair and smoothing it away from his face. I peek at him, and he’s all flushed cheeks and closed eyes, his brow drawn in an expression that could easily be mistaken for pain, but I know it’s just overwhelm. I plant one final, soft kiss on his mouth, then hold him close, tucking his head beneath mine to absorb all his aftershocks. Extraordinary.

“Feel better, princess?” I whisper.

He sighs, squeezing my deltoid. I take it as a yes and as permission to fondle him longer—kissing his head, adjusting his leg, perfecting our position. My cock still aches, but the sense of urgency is gone. It’s nice just feeling his body against it while he breathes and comes back to me. “Just in case no one’s ever told you, you’re an incredible kisser,” I say into his disheveled waves.

“Was it a bad idea?” he asks.

“Too soon to say.”

He makes a contented sound and settles against me. “I think it was a great idea.”

“Yeah?”

This side of him fascinates me. So soft. Sweet. Like he’s had three martinis and is getting sleepy. It reminds me how delicate he is. How important he is. And how much his existence and happiness mean to me. How devastated I’ll be if any of this leads to distance between us. But now’s not the time to bring that up. This is one of those things we’ll have to play by ear.

I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous about it—that making him come with a kiss is making me feel all confident that anything like this could or should happen again, but I loved it. I could hold him like this all night.

However…I’m not sure I should stay. This was a lot. We might need time to process it without forcing what might come too naturally to both of us.

I give myself a few more minutes to bask in his afterglow and make sure his jelly-like state solidifies so I don’t have to worry about him tripping and falling while I’m not here. Eventually, I wiggle myself loose. I make it into a sitting position, leaning back on the arm of the couch, but he’s still draped across me, rubbing the same warm circle over my left pec.

“You okay?” I ask.