Larkin wasn’t really checking his plants.
Not tonight, anyway.
He was awake again, with a physicality a hundred thousand times stronger than what he’d felt at La Boîte Dorée, and he was terrified any sudden movement would kill the desire he’d been robbed of for the last six months.Larkin glanced from the corner of his eye, watching Doyle through the glass french doors.His muscles flexed with each breath of oxygen, every pump of blood, his body a temple of vitality ready to sweat, gasp, be brought to his knees, pushed to his limits, no words but for more, more, more, God,more.
Larkin’s skin prickled.
He felt flush.
He felt feverish.
He feltalive.
Larkin needed Ira Doyle.
And he’d have him.
Larkin strode across the apartment, opened the bedroom door, and as Doyle turned, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, Larkin pushed him.The back of Doyle’s knees hit the bed and he fell onto the mattress with a sudden protest.Larkin moved after him while yanking his own T-shirt off, climbed on top of Doyle, and pressed their hungry mouths together.
And then Doyle’s hands were in Larkin’s hair, body thrusting up off the bed to meet him like they were opposite ends of two magnets.Larkin shoved back, rolled his hips, ignited a wildfire in his partner as he pinned Doyle’s wrists overhead and bit his ear, his throat, his chest, marking Doyle as his and his alone.At one point, Larkin had to let go, had to sit up on his knees so that he could finish undressing them both, and Doyle followed suit.He pulled Larkin flush against his chest, groped his bare ass, and licked his stomach, down past the dark blond hair at his navel.
Larkin stopped Doyle from going lower, said breathlessly, “Let me make love to you,” and kissed him.
Again.
And again and again.
His blood was pounding in his ears like a tidal wave, a tsunami, by the time Doyle slid out from underneath.Larkin watched as he wrenched open the nightstand, shoved aside its contents once, twice, before making a successful discovery of the lube in the very back of the drawer.
Doyle rejoined Larkin, this time straddling his lap.He leaned down and whispered, “Like this.So you can watch me.”
Larkin put a hand on the back of Doyle’s head and drew him into another tongue-heavy kiss.He swallowed Doyle’s gasp, eliciting that now-familiar mewl of pleasure.Larkin kissed Doyle with the assurance of morning light burning away the nighttime mist, of spores making their home in rotten remains, of the first cry at the moment of birth, his fervor that of a learned man splitting the atom—their touch an explosive release of living, of dying, of matter from everything,everywhere—
Nietzsche had said that the concept of love was an expression of egoism, that the lover was ready to make every sacrifice, disturb every arrangement, put every other interest behind his own, that the lover wanted the unconditioned, sole possession of the person longed for, and Larkin agreed.He agreed because as Doyle, asIra—who was every quality that gave pleasure to the senses and mind—gripped the headboard in both hands and rode him with total abandon, he couldn’t imagine, couldn’tfathom, not putting this man before every other person and thing in his life.
“More, more, mo—oh fuck,oh fuck.”
Call me selfish.
“Evie, don’t—don’t stop.”
After all….
Larkin thrust up hard, and Doyle panted, begged,screamedLarkin’s name as he came.
I’m only human.
Plunk,plunk,plunk.
The AC in 5A was dripping, each splash hitting the corner of Doyle’s window unit with a metallicpingthat broke the softness, the isolation, reminding Larkin that a world outside this room existed and he would be expected to be part of it when the sun rose in—well, in however many hours.Larkin couldn’t read the face of the alarm clock from where he was sprawled among the tangled bedsheets and cast-aside pillows.He’d have to sit up, dislodge Doyle, who was lazily tracing the contours of Larkin’s body, his collarbone, sternum, ribs—
“Sorry,” Doyle whispered as Larkin’s stomach involuntarily fluttered under the ministrations.He kissed the ticklish spot before setting a hand on Larkin’s chest and resting his chin atop.
Larkin looked down and met Doyle’s sated expression.He combed his fingers through thick brown hair and asked, “How do you feel.”
“Reborn.”
“Stop it.”
