Page 11 of Vigilante Twink and the Cop

Holy fuck. What was that?

Lennox nods. A short, brisk gesture of satisfaction.

Then he moves. Keeping that exact angle he worked so hard to find. And I’m yelling and screaming and having a full-on spiritual experience.

Lennox slows down, and I sob. He speeds up and my vision whites out.

He plows me deeply. Then shallowly. Then deeply again. I have no idea what my body tells him or how, but he reads it. He starts railing me with the exact tempo and depth that feels otherworldly. While simultaneously, relentlessly, hitting that spot he found.

I scream, a full-volume, no-holds-barred scream, as an orgasm burns through me, lighting up my soul like a supernova.

Lennox keeps fucking me. He fucks me through it, maintaining the same rhythm and depth. My body trembles, shakes, clenches and spasms. My orgasm renews, crests again, or maybe I’m cumming again, I can’t tell.

Lennox grunts. Groans. He falls still, sheathed in me to the hilt. He shudders.

I open my eyes and find him still looking at me. I watch his eyes darken as his orgasm storms through him. It’s enough to nearly make me cum again.

Then I’m alone on the bed. He hasn’t collapsed on top of me. He’s not squishing me with his weight.

He’s padding off to the bathroom and I think he is dealing with the condom instead of chucking it on the floor.

That’s quite something.

I’m wheezing. Panting. Sweat is starting to cool on my skin.

Lennox comes back into the bedroom with a towel. He smiles at me, warm and soft. Then he climbs back onto the bed and starts cleaning me up with the towel. It’s moist with warm water and his touch is gentle.

It’s my very expensive Egyptian cotton face towel, but I’m far too touched by the gesture to tell him that. I can always buy another one.

He diligently cleans me and then returns the towel to the bathroom. He comes back and lies down beside me with a deeply contented sigh.

My heart thumps against my ribcage.

The sex was incredible. Mind blowing. But this, this is even better.

I want this. I never knew this was an option. I had no comprehension that this was a thing. Now that I know, I need it.

I need to keep Lennox.

Chapter six

Lennox

Iwake up not knowing where I am, and for one fuzzy, half-conscious second every instinct I have left fires at once, the low grade alarm twenty-two years on the job has wired into me permanently. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar light. Unfamiliar smell.

Then I roll over, and the alarm dissolves so fast and so completely it’s almost embarrassing.

Sunlight is doing something soft and unfair to Micah’s face, picking out the curve of his cheekbone and turning it gold, and for a long moment I just lie there and let myself look.

Asleep, he looks even younger. All that knowing confidence from last night has drained out of him somewhere in the dark, leaving behind someone who sleeps with one hand curled loosely against his own chest like a kid clutching a toy he won’t admit he still needs. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. It is, against every reasonable expectation I had walking in here last night, the single most adorable thing I have seen in years, and I am a middle-aged man, lying in a stranger’s bed, smiling at a sleeping man like an absolute fool.

Every muscle I own aches in a way I’d forgotten muscles could ache, the good kind of sore that reminds you a body is for more than standing over corpses. The room is exactly as expensive in daylight as it was last night, all that glass letting in a flat gray London morning that somehow still manages to look better than it has any right to, just because of who’s lying in the middle of it. I lie there a minute longer than I should, cataloguing it, before I make myself move at all.

I lean over him at one point, on my way to finding my trousers, close enough that I could press my mouth to his temple without either of us having to acknowledge it happened. I don’t. I catch myself halfway there and freeze, genuinely alarmed at my own lips, hovering an inch from his hair like they belong to someone else entirely. I make myself move before I do something even more stupid.

Finding my clothes turns into its own quiet comedy. My shirt is on the floor by the window, for reasons that come back to me in a hot, vivid rush I am not going to examine at this time of morning. One sock has vanished entirely, and after a full minute of increasingly undignified searching, I give up and accept I’m going home with one bare ankle inside my shoe, which feels like a fitting enough punishment for a man my age behaving like this. I creep around the loft on the balls of my feet like a burglar, wincing every time a floorboard so much as thinks about creaking, throwing constant glances back at the bed to make sure he hasn’t stirred. He hasn’t. He sleeps the way he does everything else, apparently, completely and without apology.

I get dressed in the hallway rather than risk waking him doing it next to the bed. In daylight the loft looks exactly as bare as it did last night. No photographs, no clutter, nothing that says a person actually lives here rather than just stores himself here between better things. I noticed it the moment I walked in, and let it go because the thought scattered. I notice it again now, properly awake this time, and let it go again anyway, because everybody’s entitled to a minimalist streak, and because I am apparently incapable of suspecting a man I just watched drool slightly onto his own pillow.