Page 32 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
“Yes, that’s it, babe.” I’m hardly aware of what I’m saying because I’m taking advantage of Victor’s loose, post-orgasmic haze to push incrementally farther into his throat. “So good, babe. Just let me…”
My vision whites out as I come down Victor’s throat, the soft strands of his hair sliding between my fingers clutching his head. I hold him still, his nose nearly touching my pubic bone, while I unload into the tight grip behind his tongue.
I come back to myself when my spent cock slips from Victor’s mouth. He drops back onto his heels and coughs wetly. “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” I say, and reach for him. He waves me off, shakes his head, then turns over into his hands and knees to cough some more.
“Victor, I am so sorry,” I repeat helplessly.
What should I do? Pound in his back? Fetch him some water? Call the front desk? Surely no one’s actually choked to death from giving a blow job before? I don’t even know the Spanish word for blow job. Mi abuela might have eventually taught it to me—she was that kind of grandmother—but she died when I was in high school, and that’s certainly not a word that comes up much during Spanish-language Mass at Saint Sebastian’s.
Victor finally stops coughing and wheezing and flops over onto his back, arms and legs splayed wide on the polished wood floor.
“I’m fine, Jason,” he says. His voice is wrecked but the expression on his face looks like a painting of one of the saints in the throes of ecstatic martyrdom. “If you apologize again, that’ll be the last blow job you get from me and now you know what you’d be missing.”
He grins at me like he knows his own worth and okay, yeah, that was a world-class blow job. I’m trying carefully not to make comparisons to any I’ve had before because that feels disloyal to Leah, but I have to give the man his due credit.
I raise my hands in surrender. “No more apologies, I promise.”
Victor rolls over and pushes himself up from the floor. Still naked, and apparently unselfconscious about that, he grabs some tissues off the bedside table and cleans up the white spatters on the floor. He takes the crumpled wad into the bathroom and there’s the sound of running water for a bit before he returns to the bedroom.
“I think I’ll take a shower,” I say.
“Probably a good idea,” Victor replies with a wicked grin.
When I come out of the bathroom, Victor’s in bed, on his side, facing the bathroom door. He’s turned all the lights off and there’s only a glitter of lights in the valley below and a crescent moon low in the sky illuminating the room.
“Well,” I say awkwardly. “Um, good night, I guess.”
“Where are you going?” Victor asks.
I jab my thumb in the direction of the doorway. “It’s your turn in the bed.”
“Jason.” Victor flips the covers back. “Get in the fucking bed.”
He’s still naked and his soft cock nestles amid copper curls. His long legs are under the sheets and his feet are thin lumps at the very end of the bed. He is far too tall to be sleeping on the sofa in the other room.
And to be honest, the thought of sleeping on the sofa myself is less than appealing, especially with all that warm golden skin on display.
“Alright,” I say. I climb into the bed and arrange my limbs so I’m not taking up more than my side of the bed.
Victor's breathing goes slow and even, his body lax against the sheets. I should sleep too. I have to get up before dawn tomorrow for the cloud forest hike, and I want to be awake enough to spot a resplendent quetzal if we're lucky.
Instead, I prop myself up on one elbow and look at him.
The moonlight coming through the curtains turns his skin pearlescent. His face is slack in sleep, younger-looking without his usual animation. There's a small scar on his shoulder I don't remember from fifteen years ago. A story I don't know, from a life I wasn't part of.
I have an irrational urge to touch it. To ask him about it. To know everything that's happened to him since I pushed him away.
This is just sex. You don't need his life story.
But I trace the scar anyway, feather-light so I don't wake him. He shifts slightly, murmurs something unintelligible, and settles again.
I pull my hand back. This was supposed to be simple. Physical. An itch to scratch before we go back to our separate lives.
It's not supposed to feel like this.
Seventeen
Victor
