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I reach for him. My hand between us, finding him hard, and the feeling of another man’s cock in my hand is the thing I was supposed to be panicking about and I’m not. My hand wraps around him and his breath stutters and his hips roll forward and I watch his face change and the watching is a revelation. There’s just his cock in my hand and the sound he makes when I tighten my grip and the way his forehead drops against mine.
“Damián.” He moves on top of me. His weight settles and my hands find his hips and his thighs and the muscle along his sidesthat hockey built, core strength different from a footballer’s. I’m hard against his stomach and he’s hard against mine and the friction when his hips roll is slow and intentional and every part of it is visible in the morning light.
His hand wraps around both of us together and I hear myself say his name and it comes out wrecked. His hand moves and the friction is his cock against mine, his palm holding us tight, and the pleasure builds from a place in my body I didn’t know had a voice. I’ve come before. I’ve come with people. Not like this. Not with my hand gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks and his breath on my neck and the feeling that every nerve I have has finally found the right person. Tobík.
“There,” he says. “Yeah. There.”
He comes first. I feel it happen, the tension breaking, his cock pulsing against mine in his hand, his forehead dropping against my shoulder, the sound buried in my neck, warm and open and completely his. His hand doesn’t stop and I follow him feeling myself stripped raw from the intensity of it.
He stays on top of me. His breathing slowing against my chest. His hand still loosely between us, wet, neither of us moving to clean up. The gold light is still on the wall.
“That was a good morning. ,” he says again, into my shoulder.
“That was a very good morning.”
He lifts his head. Kisses my jaw. Gets up.
I watch him walk to the bathroom. His back, the tattoo climbing his ribs, the morning settling on his shoulders. He comes back in boxers and tosses me a wet cloth and heads down the hallway.
I hear a cabinet open and water running.
I pull on the shorts I find on the floor, which might be his, and walk to the kitchen doorway. He’s spooning grounds into a French press and talking to the coffee in Czech. What sounds like “you’ll be good, don’t worry.”
“You talk to your coffee?” I ask.
He turns. The smile starts before the turn finishes, his whole face opening.
“I talk to most things. The coffee. The plants. There was a squirrel on the fire escape last week and I had a full conversation with it.”
“In Czech?”
“In Czech. He didn’t seem to mind. I think he appreciated the effort.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Rent prices. He seemed stressed. I told him the dumpster behind the building’s underrated and he should consider it.”
“Did he take the advice?”
“He came back the next day, so I think yes.”
The laugh comes out of me without effort. Short and real. He grins at the sound.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“I didn’t move.”
“I know. Your arm was around me all night. I could feel it every time I woke up.”
“You woke up?”
“Once. Around four. Your arm was there. Your hand was on my stomach and I put my hand on top of it.” He pours the water, steady, his wrist controlling the angle. The grounds bloom. “I wasn’t going to move it.”
He pours two mugs. Brings one to me. The mug is heavy ceramic, handmade, slightly uneven on the rim. His fingers brush mine on the transfer.
“This is the good mug,” he says. “The other one has a chip. I’m giving you the good one.”
“I’m honored.”
