Page 2 of After His Eulogy
“I want this to last,” I say.
“It’s Wednesday.”
“I know what day it is.”
“We have time.”
“I want it to last anyway.”
He looks at me. Really looks, the way he does when he has noticed something. For half a second I think he knows. I think he’s going to ask. I think this is where it ends, in his living room, my cock half in his hand. Then he kisses my hipbone and says, “Okay. Slow.”
“Slow.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“Your mouth,” I say. “Just your mouth. Slow.”
“Okay.”
He goes back down. He takes me into his mouth an inch at a time. He pulls back and goes deeper. His hand strokes the base of me in time with his mouth. He does the thing with his tongue at the head, the small flick. I put my hand in his hair because if I don’t put it somewhere I’m going to put it over my eyes, and he will see, and I cannot let him see. I grip too hard. He humsaround me and I feel it in my spine. I want this to last because the rest of my life is going to be made of remembering it.
“Griffin.”
He hums again. Christ.
“Griffin, come up here.”
He pulls off slow. “You okay?”
“Yes. I want you over me. Come up here.”
“You want me to fuck you.”
“Yes.”
“On the couch.”
“On the couch.”
“Reece, the couch is…“
“I don’t care. The couch.”
He smiles into my hip. “Okay.”
He gets up. He gets the lube from the side-table drawer where it lives because we live here. Because this is our apartment. Because we keep the lube in the side-table drawer for couch sex on Wednesday nights, because that’s what our life is. The life is ending in nine hours, at six in the morning, when I leave through the door I have walked through a thousand times.
“Hey.”
He’s looking at me, lube in his hand, small frown.
“Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Reece.”
“Right here.”
