When Blake finally took him into his mouth, Andre arched off the bed, a sharp, broken sound escaping his throat. Blake’s tongue was slow and deliberate, working the underside of Andre’s shaft, his hand gripping the base, his rhythm patient and maddening.
“Blake,” Andre gasped, his fingers tangling in Blake’s golden hair. “Please.”
Blake pulled off, looking up at Andre with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Turn over.”
Andre obeyed, rolling onto his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow. He felt Blake’s hands on his hips, lifting him slightly, and then Blake’s mouth was on him — his tongue pressing flat against Andre’s entrance, licking in slow, firm strokes that made Andre’s entire body shudder.
“Putain!” Andre breathed, his hands gripping the headboard. “Blake — oh,putain—”
Blake worked him open with his tongue, patient and thorough, his hands holding Andre’s hips steady. The sensation was overwhelming — intimateand raw and impossibly tender. Andre felt himself unraveling, the tension of the day, the frustration of the loss, the confusion about his future — all of it dissolving under the relentless attention of Blake’s mouth.
When Blake finally entered him, it was slow, careful, his chest pressed against Andre’s back, his mouth at Andre’s ear. “I’ve got you,” Blake whispered, his voice raw and strained. “I’ve always got you.”
They moved together, finding a rhythm that was as familiar as breathing and as urgent as the first time. Andre reached back, gripping Blake’s thigh, pulling him deeper, needing to feel the full weight and presence of the man he loved.
Blake’s hand slid around Andre’s hip, wrapping around his cock, moving in time with his thrusts. Andre buried his face in the pillow, his body taut and shaking, the pressure building to a point that was almost unbearable.
“Let go,” Blake said, his voice breaking. “Andre. Let go.”
Andre came with a shout that he muffled against the pillow, his body clenching around Blake, pulling Blake over the edge with him. Blake followed seconds later, his forehead dropping to Andre’s shoulder, a low, guttural groan vibrating against Andre’s skin.
They collapsed together, tangled and sweating, their hearts pounding in unison.
After a long silence, Andre said, “The Whitfield Gallery offered me a solo exhibition.”
Blake lifted his head, looking at Andre with surprise. “When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it means I’ll need to produce fifteen new pieces by September. And that means…” Andre trailed off.
“That means less tennis,” Blake finished.
“That means almost no tennis.”
Blake was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Andre’s back.
“When do you need to give them an answer?”
“I already said yes.”
Another silence. Then Blake pulled Andre closer, wrapping both arms around him, his chin resting on the top of Andre’s head.
“Good,” Blake said. “I’m proud of you.”
Andre closed his eyes, pressing his face against Blake’s chest, listening to the steady, reliable beat of his heart.
He wanted to believe that this was enough. That love and pride and the smell of fresh bread in the morning were enough to hold a life together.
But somewhere, in a part of himself he didn’t want to examine, he felt the recurring tremor of something shifting. An unease. A hunger for something he couldn’t name.
He pushed it down, held Blake tighter, and told himself it was nothing.
The idea came from Liam, as most terrible ideas did.
“If I’m going to sit in a player’s box at Wimbledon,” he announced over drinks at the flat the following Saturday, “I refuse to be the idiot who claps at the wrong time. I need to understand what’s happening.”
