“Shit,” he breathed when it was over, the word drawn out.
They were both shaking. He tried to pull out, but Ejiro’s arse clenched around him, and he grabbed Obiora’s hips, stopping him.
“Not … not yet.” He blushed.
“Fucking hell.” Obiora had to push their hips closer together so his softening dick wouldn’t accidentally slip out. He managed to balance himself on one elbow, leaning down to kiss away his lover’s tears. “Okay, love? Fucking hell.”
“So good,” Ejiro said, a little dreamily, panting. “God, that was so good.”
He sounded genuinely amazed, like he never knew sex could be like this, and Obiora fucking loved him.
“You were right,” Ejiro said a little playfully, a little shyly, meeting his eyes. “Consent is fucking sexy.”
“I love you. You’re so fucking cute,” Obiora said with a breathless laugh, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. “Do you want to take a shower with me?”
“Yes, please,” Ejiro responded. He was grinning, looking so utterly happy—so obviously pleased and satisfied that Obiora couldn’t help but preen. “Just as soon as my legs start working again.”
Obiora laughed.
THEY SHOWERED, CHANGED THE SHEETS, and went down to make oats, hard boiled eggs, and fried plantain—a Nigerian-style breakfast. Then they were back in bed, clothes off, cuddling and kissing. His hole ached—it’d probably hurt like a bastard later—but right now, he couldn’t stop clenching, loving the ache somehow, like Obiora had somehow marked him. He couldn’t wait for Obiora to mark him again.
“So, I kind of took all the attention last night,” he murmured between kisses. “How did your talk with your dad go?”
“Mhm,” Obiora hummed, still kissing him.
Ejiro laughed, giddy. “I love you,” he said, because he could.
Obiora smiled against his mouth. “I love you, too, baby. So much.”
Obiora continued kissing him.
“Obiora,” Ejiro said, laughing, but it was a weak complaint, considering that he wasn’t stopping him.
Obiora laughed, planting one final smack on his mouth. “Fine, fine. What was the question?”
“You’re ridiculous. Your talk with your dad?” Ejiro prompted.
“Oh, right. Yes. It went really great. Turns out he already sort of knew I wanted to leave? And he also had a hunch that I wanted to be a personal trainer. I guess I’m not as good an actor as I thought I was, at least not to my family.”
Ejiro’s heart melted for him. “I’m so happy for you, baby. That’s amazing.”
Obiora smiled. “Thank you.” His smile dimmed a little. “Do you want to talk about what happened with your mum?”
Ejiro swallowed. “Oh, it was nothing she hasn’t said before,” he said flippantly, his eyes focused intently on the dimple in Obiora’s cheek. “More trite stuff about how much she’s done for me and how I owe her because of that. Oh, and I also kind of came out to her? Well, she accused Ajiri of turning me gay, and I didn’t deny it, and she had a full-on breakdown. Like, she was literally screaming and crying and telling me that I’d killed her. So. There’s that.”
“Fucking hell, baby,” Obiora said, his voice thick. “That sounds awful.”
Ejiro felt his heart crack open. “Yeah. Well.”
It was discombobulating, how the same woman who’d coddled him and Ajiri when they were sick, making them pepper soup and spoiling them, letting them stay in bed all day; the same woman who’d come to his primary school to scream bloody murder at the principal when Ejiro had been six years old and had vomited in class and the cleaner had made him get on his hands and knees in the middle of his lesson to wipe the vomit up himself, ignoring his humiliated sobs; the same woman who’d made sure all three of them went on at least one holiday every year—before he and Ajiri had left to the UK for Uni—had turned into … this.
Everything seemed to have changed after Ajiri had come out.
But … had it really changed? Or had the veneer simply been pulled back, revealing the ugliness underneath? She’d planned their lives out from the beginning; told them what to study, how to dress; and now that he was thinking about it, she’d even been the one to push them to get their citizenship, citing that it would only open more doors of opportunity for them. She’d written down their entire futures and dismissed their own wants and dreams and desires like she was swatting away at flies, only rewarding them when they did as she bid.
Then Ajiri had had enough, and suddenly, her stance changed. She no longer cared about them getting their citizenship, and wanted Ejiro to come home. She clung to him with a gnarled, clawing grip, and the longer Ejiro had remained in the UK, the darker and uglier she’d become.
How must Ajiri have felt, after their mother’s vile rants against her own daughter, to have her twin—by all accounts, her best friend—continue to vouch for the woman who’d so easily cut her off without missing a beat?
