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I pull on jeans and a shirt and shoes and I’m out the door. The lobby is empty. The Uber takes eleven minutes. The driver doesn’t talk.
He opens the door. Shorts, a t-shirt, bare feet. The apartment behind him is dim. One lamp on.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
I step in and kiss him. The way I’ve been wanting to kiss him since he said the word “pardons” on a metal bench earlier. My hand on his jaw. His mouth opening against mine.
He reads it immediately. His hand comes up to my wrist, his thumb on my pulse. His mouth is patient against mine.
He pulls back. Looks at me.
“Come here,” he says.
He takes my hand. The hallway. Slower this time, both of us walking instead of pulling. He stops at the bedroom door and pulls my shirt over my head. I pull his. His chest in thelamplight. The tattoo from hip to ribs. I put my mouth on the skyline. He breathes in.
The bed. He sits on the edge and I stand between his knees and his hands are at my belt. He undoes the buckle. He pulls everything down and my cock is hard and the head already wet and he puts his mouth on me without preamble, his hand around the base, slow, unhurried. The patience is different from Sunday. Tonight there’s no window closing.
I push his hair back. “Wait. I want to be inside you.”
He pulls off. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then get on the bed.”
I do. He reaches for the nightstand. He lies back. I move over him. His legs open around me and I settle between them, my weight on my forearms, and his face is right there. His hand comes up to my wrist, his thumb on my pulse.
I slick my fingers. I know what to do now. His cock is hard against his stomach, dark, the head wet. I watch his face while I open him and the watching is the thing I can’t get enough of. The way Tobík undone still looks like Tobík, just more.
I kiss his throat, the corner of his jaw where the stubble is rough at the end of the day.
“Now,” he says.
I pull my fingers out. I slick my cock. The head of me against his hole, the pressure, the heat, and I push in slow. His hand tightens on my wrist. His mouth opens. His eyes don’t close.
The first push is slow. The tightness of him around me. I stop halfway because the feeling is too much and if I move I’m going to lose myself.
“Keep going,” he says.
I push the rest of the way in. His forehead creases and his breath catches and I hold still, fully inside him, his hand on my wrist, my forehead against his, both of us breathing the same air.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. More than okay.”
I move slowly. A pace that belongs to the night, not the morning. Each thrust deliberate. His legs tighten around me and the pressure of that changes the angle and I feel him gasp under me. I stay at that angle. My mouth finds his and we kiss between thrusts, his tongue against mine, and the slowness is its own kind of heat.
His hand moves from my wrist to the back of my neck. His fingers grip. The pace picks up. His body takes it, his hips meeting mine, the sound of us together in the quiet apartment, the mattress, the breathing, the small broken sounds he makes.
My composure is gone. It left somewhere around the second thrust and hasn’t come back. There is nothing in me except the feeling of being inside him and the way his eyes are open and on mine and the steadiness of them even now, even while I’m fucking him, the steadiness that says I see you.
I slow down. I need to say something. The words are sitting in my throat and they don’t have a rehearsal and there’s no version of them that sounds like a man being sensible.
I press my forehead against his. My hips still moving, slow, deep.
“Nobody sees me,” I say. Against his mouth. “My whole life. Everyone sees the version. You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen the actual man.”
He pulls me closer. His arms around my neck, his legs tight around me, his whole body pulling me in. Then, quiet, against my ear:
“Damián.”
