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“I love you. When you’re a lot, when you’re quiet—all of you.” It’s true, and it’s what I tell myself when I doubt. But even if he’s detected my concerns, this feels like it’s bigger than me. It feels like baggage. “I’m sorry anyone has ever made you feel you have to compensate for having a big personality.”
A grin flicks across his face. “I also have a big—”
“Timothy.”
“Well, I do,” he says sheepishly.
“You do,” I admit because he does, “but…you don’t need to give me multiple daily orgasms, or anything else, to keep me happy.”
He rubs his thumb over my thigh, a smile sliding over his lips. “Getting you off is also for me.”
I pull him close, kissing him long and deep. His arms wrap around me and he holds me tight. Finally, I rest my forehead against his. “The night we met, you spent hours listening to me cry over a guy who didn’t deserve it. You sent me monthly gift baskets because my periods sucked. When I got fired, you wanted to find me a job. You’re always giving. Sometimes, I want to give.”
His fingers work their way up my hips and under my shirt. “What do you want to give me?”
“I’m not talking about sex. Well, maybe a little,” I concede when he kisses the spot on my neck that turns my blood to warm honey. “Just be with me, Timothy. Relax. You don’t have to fix everything or look after me all the time or give me more than I need. Let me ask. Let me give. Tell me what you need.”
“Look down,” he whispers.
I do, and he’s hard, tenting his jockey shorts.
His lips brush my cheeks. “I need you.”
“Then let me take care of you,” I say, slipping off the counter and pushing him back until he bumps into the island. This isn’t what he was hinting at, but it’s what I want. “And let’s spend the rest of the day hanging out.”
Timothy looks unsteady, but he nods, shuddering when I brush my fingers over his erection.
“It’s hard for me to not be extra,” he says, his eyes fluttering shut as I free his dick and stroke him the way he likes.
“So be extra. I love your extra.”
He sighs, but it’s a much happier sigh. “I don’t know how I can love you more every day, but I do.”
I take him into my mouth and take away his ability to talk. Or at least to say anything beyond dirty talk, because let’s face it, Timothy is still Timothy.
“Fuck,” he stutters as I suck him deep and stroke what doesn’t fit in my mouth with my hand. He gathers my hair, holding me loosely. “I love watching you suck me.”
My mouth is busy, so I try to smile through my eyes. I love making him feel good, but I also love the way he feels in my mouth, the salty, musky taste of his precum, and how gentle he is with me. He knows I hate gagging, so he doesn’t move, not even the tiniest thrust. I’m in control and he’s more than good with that. It’s a turn-on and if I didn’t need a break, I’d have slipped my hand into my shorts by now.
He brushes some loose strands of hair out of my face. “You’re so pretty with my dick in your mouth,” he murmurs. “Mmm. Just like that, god you feel amazing.”
I lightly drag my nails down his thighs and he falls back against the counter with a moan. The kitchen fills with the sloppy sounds of me blowing him and the satisfied, incoherent rumblings that soon replace his words. I focus on my task, varying my touch, running my tongue over his length, along the ridge. Stroking and sucking, fast and slow, deep and shallow until he’s shaking under the hand I’ve braced on his thigh.
“Look at me, baby,” he whispers, and I do. His face holds so much open vulnerability, so much love. I don’t stop or slow, but I keep my eyes on him and what passes between us is deeper than a blow job in the kitchen. It’s a promise I’ll take care of him too. That he can let me without needing to reciprocate. That he understands how much I love him. All of him.
“I’m going to come,” he says roughly, giving me the choice of letting him come in my mouth. We don’t break eye contact, though his close when his face pinches with pleasure. I keep going, taking him as deep as I can and swallowing before the texture makes me gag. He moans through the end of his orgasm and when he slumps against the counter, I release him gently and pull his boxer briefs back up.
When he moves—probably to grab me a glass of water—I still him with a touch.
“Let me,” I say, kissing him on the cheek. “Remember?”
“I don’t remember my name,” he says with a sheepish, dreamy grin. “Move in with me. For good.”
What?
It takes Timothy four days to convince me to move in with him, and another four days for me to convince him I should pay rent and split the bills. He doesn’t give in graciously. He pouts, sulks, and tries every trick in the book, but in the end, I win. As soon as my job keeping him out of trouble ends in three weeks, I’ll start paying. He’s undercharging me, but I let him, so he thinks he wins too.
In truth, I’ve been too wrapped up in Timothy and busy sewing underwear to look for a new apartment and find a new roommate. I haven’t started looking for a new job, which I’ll need if I’m going to pay my share.
