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I wash my hands and stand there at the little sink, letting the orange-scented soap sit on my hands and forearms. I picture him riding in a car somewhere. Where is he going? Who’s with him? I can’t even guess at what he might be doing. That’s how little I know about his job.
Did his “thank you” mean he liked the painting? Did I seem too thirsty, painting something like he asked? He hasn’t texted since the “thank you.”
I wash and dry my hands and arms, slather some lotion on because my hands get so damn dry, and step slowly out into the grass. I get a long, slow breath, scented by flowers. Then a low voice hisses: “Back here.”
I glance around the garden—there are three big trees, two benches, flowers, and a tiny goldfish pond—then bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Back here? I turn around, kneeling to fuck with my shoe lace so I can check out the gap between the church building’s wall and the back wall of the port-a-room.
There’s enough space for him to squeeze in there—maybe.
Trying not to laugh, I take one more look around and then turn sideways, squeezing in between the walls. I see his face, blotted by shadow. He’s behind the port-a-room’s back wall. I’m still squeezed beside the side wall.
We’re both grinning. He looks like a little kid, mischievous and silly.
When we’re close enough to touch, he reaches his hand out, and I grab it. Then I shuffle my feet so we’re standing side by side, our backs against the church’s wall, the plastic-y port-a-wall six or seven inches in front of us. We can’t even turn fully to face each other—both our shoulders are too wide—and it’s so fucking funny, I start laughing.
He hisses, “Shut up, Emerson.”
Hearing my given name—which no one but my second grade teacher has ever used—just makes things worse. His hand clamps over my mouth, but he looks so awkward, pressed between walls.
I’m half-howling, still. He slips his hand around my jaw to the back of my head and jerks me closer, so we’re pushed against both of the walls, but his mouth manages to reach mine. He bites my lip.
I yelp. And now he’s laughing. He licks my lip, and holy hell, I want him so much. I can’t even reach his dick because of how my arms are.
“You’re crazy,” I manage between kisses.
“For this.”
We kiss until I feel like all the air between the walls is getting used up. Then I get my hand up to his face and brush my fingers over his jaw.
“You smell good. Like Luke McDowell.”
“You smell like Successful Artist.” His eyes shut a little as he nibbles at my jaw and earlobe. I let out a low moan.
“Quiet.”
“Sorry.”
Then his hand is on my cock. I moan again, and we contort ourselves so that his mouth is over mine. Every time he pumps me, I’m groaning into his mouth, until I come so hard my legs give way, and I have to steady myself against the port-a-room’s wall.
“Oh, man.”
He laughs darkly. I reach for him, my palm rubbing his erection, but he pushes my hand away.
“Gotta go play chess.”
“What?”
“I have a standing chess date with a donor. Old guy. Shut-in.”
“What, you don’t keep spare briefs in your office?”
He looks abashed. “No.”
“We’ll have to fix that.”
I kiss on his neck a little, till he groans and shoves me away. “You’re gonna make me,” he murmurs.
“Make you what?” I work on his pants, eventually unfastening them. Then I push them down and look into his dazed eyes as I stroke his boner.
He grits his teeth and breathes hard, but he doesn’t make noise, even as my hand moves faster and I feel his dick swell. His head bows. He presses a fist against the port-a-room as a tremor jerks through his abs and he jets into my hands.
“You’re the worst…”
I wipe my hands on the underside of my shirt and then wipe his cock again with my damp fingers.
“Says the man who called me back here.”
He gives me a small smile, and I kiss his cheek.
“I was just thinking about you,” I tell him.
“What were you thinking?” In the small space, his low voice is warm and husky.
“Wondering where you were, what you were doing.” I lean against him…lean my head against his. A cool breeze blows between the two walls.
“I fucking miss you when we’re not together,” I say.
“Same.” It’s raspy.
He buttons his pants, and my hand finds his. I trace his knuckles, envisioning the lines like I would sculpt them.
“You like the guy? Chess guy?” I ask.
“He’s cool.”
“Good for you to get away, yeah?”
He smiles wryly. “It’s never good for me to get away.” After a second, he adds, in a hushed voice, “We’ve got some supply drops in Syria today. The charity.”
