The darker it gets outside, the more shadows gather in here. I’d turned the heat low, knowing we’d be sitting close to the fireplace and not wanting to toe the line between comfortable and too hot. Oliver’s face glows warm in the firelight, cheeks pink, hair silver and gold. I give myself a few minutes to sit with the words before I say them.
“You look beautiful.”
I expect a little bit of blushing. Maybe a self-conscious laugh or even a joke. Perhaps a change of subject. What I don’t expect is for the soft, relaxed expression on Oliver’s face to tilt into something hungry. He looks at me across the expanse of the coffee table—food, candles, and wine spread between us—and the sweater I’m wearing suddenly seems too hot. I stare into his eyes, aware of the pounding of my heart and the buzz of anticipation humming in my groin, and realize I’m hungry, too, but that food will not be enough.
The burn spreads all the way down to my toes as Oliver puts his napkin on the table, fingers spread as he leans over and blows out the candles.
“Finished?” he asks. Not by half, but I nod anyway. Rising, I reach a hand out to him, gently pulling him to his feet.
The fire had burned low enough during dinner that it’s easy to put out. Oliver clicks on a table lamp and, humming softly under his breath, stacks our plates together. I don’t tell him notto help this time, as I think it’s in both of our best interests to get the food put away as quickly as possible. Being around Oliver recently has become a study in self-control—a constant battle between wanting to touch him and kiss him and stare at him, but having to remember where we are and whom we are with. Desire is foreign to me, and the feeling of losing control hits me hard at times like this. I just want him sobadly. It feels like too much to hold inside and far too much to keep to myself.
Tonight, though, I don’t have to. Oliver puts the leftovers away in the fridge as I load the dishwasher, brushing against me and touching my arm and meeting my eyes every time I look his way. The kitchen is a lot bigger than it feels right now, with the pair of us and so much want taking up space.
I rest my hand on Oliver’s back once more, palm pressing into the curve of his spine as we walk up the stairs. He’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels a little like anticipation—the change in pressure as a thunderstorm forms or calm seas before a hurricane. It doesn’t feel like silence because anything is wrong, but quiet because it’s not.
“I love this room,” Oliver says softly, touching his fingers to the bedspread and gazing around. I nod. I love it, too, although that’s something I really only notice when he’s in here with me. Before, it had merely been a space to sleep in.
Oliver slips into the bathroom as I turn on a single lamp, leaving it on the lowest level. I don’t want a dark room where I can only find Oliver through my fingertips. I want as close to the lighting as we had downstairs that I can get. I want him gilded gold.
Undressing slowly, I smile when Oliver joins me and reaches for his sweater. I’m reminded of how low I left the heat when his torso pebbles with cold, little bumps rising over his shoulders and down his arms. I trail my knuckles down his bicep, and he shivers. Maybe not the cold, then.
His eyes are knowing and playful when he flicks open the button on his jeans, sliding the zipper down slower than necessary. I’m torn between knowing the best part is watching and wanting to help as he tucks his thumbs into the waist and slides them down his legs. As I’d hoped earlier, there was something pretty hidden beneath the denim. The jeans are tossed carelessly to the floor, and I reach to touch, my entire body vibrating like the string on a violin. A thin red strap circles his abdomen, inches above his waist, holding together gauzy triangles of mesh that manage to cover him while still being erotically indecent. He softly gasps when I trace the strap of red down to where it’s held in place around his thigh. I watch the outline of his erection twitch beneath the lingerie. When I look up and meet his eyes, they’re filled with so much heat I can feel the weight of his gaze.
Every inch of me thrums with pleasure when he moves close enough to kiss me, our bodies flush together. It’s shadows and smooth skin under calloused palms, soft gasps, and the smell of flowers. Everything is Oliver.
“Nils,” Oliver says, turning his face until his lips are near enough to my ear to tickle. I’m the one shivering now, hands clenched tightly on his hips, pulling him against me. I want to ask him to say it again, to say my name in that breathy, need-filled voice, and groan when he fulfills the silent request. “Nils?”
“Mm?” I hum to let him know I heard the question in his tone, sliding my hands up his sides and back down until my fingers coast over the swell of his ass.
“Do you want…” He trails off, voice disappearing into my hair as he turns his face against me. His own fingers, resting in a position mirroring mine, slip into my crack.
“Yes.” I answer the silent question before he can get the rest out. I’ve been waiting for him to ask, particularly on the nights when his mouth was on me and his fingers exploring. I hadn’t told him to stop then and liked how it felt. “I want to,” I add, in case a simple yes doesn’t suffice.
“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning back enough for me to see his face. “We don’t have to.”
“Yes,” I repeat, stroking up his sides again. The skin around his ribs is the softest thing I’ve ever touched.
“We can do it however you’re comfortable, however you want.” Oliver’s voice is soft and hypnotic in the dark room, aquamarine eyes framed by a fringe of pale lashes.
“You don’t bottom,” I remind him, lifting one hand to stroke my knuckles down his cheek. Despite the thrumming of my pulse, I’m not anxious or stressed. I’m not worried about stuttering in front of him, and with every word that comes out smoothly, I sink further into that comfort.
“I can, though.” I shake my head. No, he can’t. Not if he doesn’t enjoy it. After a second, he asks softly, “Condoms?”
I have some in the bathroom, recently purchased and the box as yet unopened. Teasing the strap of his garter, I hookmy finger through and run my knuckle along his skin. The condoms had seemed like a good idea at the time and the type of preparation I could handle alone. Now, I’m wondering why I bothered. We’ve both had our testing done and come back clean. We’re both in this together.
“Do we need them?” I ask. Oliver contemplates my face, looking for all the messages he’s able to read right off my skin.I trust you, and I want to do this, I add on silently, knowing he’ll hear me anyway.
“We don’t need them,” he agrees, kissing me a little harder and pushing against me. I clutch him to me, careful not to damage the red slips of fabric covering him, but eager for where this is going. When he turns me, I walk backward with no further prompting.
He follows me down when I reach the bed, kissing my neck and along the center of my chest. Tilting my face, I look down at him—his hair in loose disarray, legs spread and knees planted, straddling mine. When he lifts up enough for me to get a clear view of red mesh cupping his dick and fine crimson straps resting across his hips like a present waiting to be unwrapped, arousal hits me in a wave of dizziness.
“Like this?” he asks, hand on my thigh and perilously close to my throbbing cock. I think I could come merely from looking at him. When I don’t answer, he leans down to kiss my stomach before asking again. “On your back?”
I nod. He sits up, weight resting on my legs, body framed by the light from the lamp, and a coy smile on his lips. He strokes fingers up my hip and murmurs, “Good.”
I reach down with the intention of relieving some of the pressure that has suddenly built in my groin, but Oliver catches my hand and gently pushes it to the side, bending over me once more and kissing sweetly across my torso.
“Not yet,” he admonishes, voice low and husky, breathed against my skin. “Not yet.”
