Dangerously Happy (5 page)

When we stopped, we were both panting. He backed away to look at me—my face, the bulge sticking up under my slacks—and without realizing what I was doing I’d curved my hands behind his triceps, desperate not to let him slip away from me, not even far enough that I couldn’t feel his body’s heat against my belly and chest.

“
Come upstairs with me.” More like a directive than an invitation. Fear and arousal driving a violent surge of blood through my whole body with every thumping heartbeat, I followed him to the far corner of the loft and up the steep, precarious stairs that were hardly more than a ladder, a staircase usually hidden behind a teak screen he kept locked in place to bar the hordes from entering his sanctuary during the weekend events, so that I’d never seen the stairs, much less the sleeping area they led to. It was like we’d gone to a different house. As open and spare as the rest of the loft was, the upstairs area, which was suspended above maybe a quarter of the lower loft but which was larger than my entire apartment—was warm, cozy, intimate, mostly in golds with accents of deep brownish reds, all the wood teak, nothing ornate, all in gentle slopes and curves, rounded corners, avoiding even a single hard angle.

Raising his hands to my hair and giving me a caress that felt both tender and possessive, demanding, Dario said, “I prefer to be with you up here. Downstairs, it’s for everyone. Up here, it’s just for us.”

He kissed me again. It was like drowning, that kiss the medium in which my body, my soul was suspended, that kiss touching every cell of my skin, every hair follicle on my body, filling my mouth, my throat, my lungs until I couldn’t breathe, until my consciousness started to dim and blur in dizzy euphoria.

Then his mouth was by my ear and in that intimate voice that made me feel like I was being touched, he said, “I want to undress you.”

I wanted to let him. Just the words sent a thrill surging through me. But I was afraid, too. Not afraid he’d try to make me do something if I didn’t want it, but afraid that by taking my clothes off maybe I was making some implicit promise I might not be able to keep. But he knew that already, didn’t he?

His hands slid up under my shirt and over my belly, slowly, incredibly lightly, his hands warm, his touch amplifying my arousal more than I’d imagined could be possible given how fucking turned on I was already, even before he brushed his fingertips over my nipples. He stood still, with that complete, intense focus of his fixed on me, and then he started, the whole time mostly watching my face, but now and then looking at the skin he was exposing—my stomach, my chest—watching his fingers working the buttons of my shirt, drawing it open, then drawing it off my shoulders, down my arms. He gazed into my eyes for a moment, then his hands and eyes moved over my naked torso. He kissed me again, then, tentative, incredibly gentle at first. Then with rising hunger. Palpable want. When the kiss ended, he looked at me again, like he was trying to read my mind.

Nervous and turned on as hell, my heart hammering, I watched him sink to his knees, first gazing up at me, seeking my response, then feathering his lips over my abdomen, right along the waistline of my slacks, instantly pumping more blood and heat into my already throbbing cock. His warm, wet tongue sliding over my skin, little sucking, thrilling kisses across the tattoo that was only half visible above my belt. When he stopped, he looked at the blatant bulge of my erection jutting against my pants, then gazed up at me with a rousing, eager grin, and started working my belt open, unzipping my fly.

God, it was really happening. I don’t think I’d ever been as nervous or as fucking turned on as I was as he slid my pants down off my hips, then knelt there caressing my hard cock through my boxer briefs with his gaze. He planted a lingering kiss just next to my cock, that gesture and his hot breath driving a fresh thrill through me. Then he slid my shorts down, just an inch or two. He looked up at me, making sure, then bared my cock. He sighed. For a minute he just knelt there looking at it, his rapt gaze pumping blood straight to my erection.

When I was completely naked he stood and told me to get on the bed, and I did, heart hammering hard, erection absolutely throbbing. It embarrassed me to watch him undress, I don’t know why it was much harder than letting him undress me, being naked under that intense gaze of his. But he was so, so beautiful that even though I felt embarrassed I was absolutely devouring the sight of him, his long, perfectly proportioned torso, his broad shoulders and chest the ideal I’d worked hard to approximate by going to the gym for two hours four times a week, every week since college, but which had been given to him by genetics. I liked that he didn't look waxed bare like an underwear model. The way that sparse field of dark hair on his pecs narrowed into a line that ran down his abdomen until it was hidden beyond the waist of his pants drew my eyes down his body like a beacon.

When he unzipped his jeans I looked up at his face because I was embarrassed to be sitting there staring, waiting to see it, and to be honest, a little scared to see it. Scared it would freak me out. Turn me off. Like he was reading my mind, Dario’s aroused grin faded a little and his gaze went watchful as he slid his pants and boxer briefs down. When he stood, I couldn’t help myself; like an involuntary response my eyes locked on his dick, hard, ruddy and veined and thick. I’d always been a little proud of my cock. But his was definitely bigger. Thicker. Big, flared crown. His balls. Everything groomed. Fuck. The startling shock of really seeing it went straight to my gut.

Then to my cock. Fuck I wanted him.

When he was naked he got on the bed with me, coming close without touching, but again, so close I felt the heat of him, now and then felt a little gust of his breath as he studied my expression, as he looked over my body without a trace of shyness about submitting me, and—another lingering, greedy gaze—my cock to his scrutiny, then finally laying his hand on my waist with what I’m almost sure was restraint because I almost couldn’t feel the weight of it but his hand was trembling. And then he kissed me again, a kiss that started shallow and gentle but got more and more hungry, greedy, and that lasted and lasted, as if there was nothing else for two naked people in bed together to do but kiss.

When we finally emerged from that kiss he looked me over again, his gaze lingering now and then on some feature—my cock, the tattoo between my navel and my left hip, the scar on my shin from a cycling accident when I was in college. That caressing voice, “You’re lovely, Aidan. Unbearably lovely. I’m going to call you Rodin.”

“
Was Rodin lovely?” I teased, embarrassed. It felt so strange, him gazing at me that way, after all the times I'd caught women and guys staring at him. At his beauty. His big, dark eyes made even more stunning because he had incredibly long thick eyelashes. That movie star jawline. Those soft, full lips that had kissed me.

“
Not particularly. But he carved lovely figures, which is what you’ve done.”

“
Trying to look like you,” I confessed.

I thought he’d laugh or come back with a clever comment, but he just gazed at me, his luminous happiness tinged with a little shadow of melancholy, I thought, then kissed me again, another kiss like a wave rising over and crashing down on me until I felt I was being swept away by the force of him. Little by little I felt that restraint he’d imposed on himself slipping away, the weight of his hand finally succumbing to gravity, daring at last to explore, then take possession of my body inch by inch, and then he lifted himself on top of me and I panicked a little. I thought I was going to tell him no, it’s too much. But his warmth and weight on me felt so good, the scent of him filling me each time I took a breath was making me even hungrier for him, and the way he was kissing me and touching me had me gasping, moaning, straining for every caress, and I was writhing under him, the way our bodies rubbed and slid against each other driving me crazy, worse than the cruelest torment of want from adolescent days when every encounter with my girlfriends stopped short of release, leaving me in agony until I could get home and jerk off.

He ended the kiss, rose up on his knees. Towering over me, his hungry gaze framed above the sight of his hard cock drove a fresh spike of want and fear into me. He reached past me, and laid a bottle of lube on the blanket by my hip.

Suddenly in a panic, my whole body tensed as if for battle I asked in a constricted voice that sounded almost angry, “What’s that for?”

“
I’m going to suck your cock until you beg me for mercy,” he said, no dent in his embracing, caressing voice. “And while I suck you, I’m going to finger your ass. Has anyone done that to you before?”

“
No.” Two women had tried, and I’d told them both to knock it off, but I didn’t say that.

“
It’s going to feel good.” He smiled. “No, that’s a lie. It’s going to feel fucking amazing. But you have to give it a chance.”

I didn’t tell him no, even though the idea of it sounded frankly awful. Clinical, anatomical, invasive and a little sadistic. I don’t know what I thought we were going to do in bed together, except maybe stroke each other off and, eventually—I’d fantasized it and was almost sure I’d eventually want to—fuck each other, but being penetrated that way hadn’t occurred to me and suddenly my whole body was rigid, already trying to defend itself even before he’d moved a muscle.

He sank down very slowly, not to go down on me, but to say softly by my ear, “Can you trust me?”

I croaked out a weak little, “Yes,” as if a snake had wrapped itself around my throat and was constricting its coils, trying to choke the life from me.

“
It’s not a question for your brain, Aidan. It’s a question for your heart. You thought about it, and you said yes. But what do you
feel
? Can you trust me?”

I tried to make myself forget the image of a latex-gloved hand probing my anal cavity, and return to that dim, warm room, to how I’d felt with him kissing and touching and looking at me. “Yes.”

“
I’ll always be very careful not to spoil that feeling.”

“
Okay,” I said.

A brief brush of his soft warm lips over mine, and then he went down, looking up for a moment, noting that I was watching what he was doing, and with the same delicious, torturous patience he began to give me head. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did: it was the best head I’d ever had. So much so, it was like a new, strange experience, as if the women I’d been with had been performing some other act when they’d bobbed up and down with my cock in their mouths.

At first he was barely moving, and apart from seeing him slip the crown of my cock between his lips, or at other moments seeing his tongue sliding over my flesh, I couldn’t even be sure exactly what he was doing. There was just the sensation of warmth, of wetness, of a muscular embrace engulfing, constricting, occasionally exerting a sucking pressure that sometimes was barely discernible, driving a fierce want into me, other times growing so intense I was almost anxious that it was about to hurt. But all through it, from the first minute, I wanted more. I wanted it so bad I was lifting my hips, seeking the depth of his mouth, begging him with a gesture, a caress, a little grunt of exquisite suffering to please, please, give me just a little more of that sensation that was a new pleasure I’d never imagined.

I was so lost in that pleasure I wasn’t even aware of him doing it, reaching for the bottle, squeezing out a measure of lube, but the first touch, just a shy little feathering caress under my balls, slid warm and slippery over my skin, teasing, maybe hinting at tickling, at that tormenting thrill, then weightening into a real, coaxing caress. The taunting pleasure of his engulfing, sucking mouth, endlessly driving me to seek its own culmination, never relented, never stopped driving me to tremble, to flex and arch for his tongue, his throat even at the moment when one finger slid slowly along my cleft and began rubbing the sensitive little aperture, suddenly magnifying the pleasure of the blowjob with that new, fretful little sensation.

With a little slurping noise he released my dick from his mouth. “Baby,” he said, and I felt my face burn at that little endearment, “are you always so silent? I’d love to hear you.”

I realized my jaw was clenched tight, so tight that when I willed myself to relax it, it ached. I’d been holding my breath, too, taking a quick gulp of air only when I’d half suffocated myself. I made myself breathe, in and out, my lips parted, and little by little those breaths swelled up to soft moans as he started giving me head again, as he started wiggling that finger between my cheeks again, and then, as I felt his finger push past the tight little aperture and slide slowly up inside me I heard a warbly little whimper composed half of fear and half of pleasure. Then I was whining my want, my need, my bitter frustration because his mouth had all but stilled, my cock buried deep, so deep I wondered if he’d slowed because he was choking himself in an effort to impress me, and the sensation of what he was doing with that finger plunged into me to the hilt demanded all my attention as he moved it inside of me, little fluid movements, and I was grunting faintly, the sensation driving these little noises out of me without me knowing whether I’d name the feeling pleasure, but then he started working over my absolutely aching cock with his tongue and lips and driving me to the point of madness with that incredible sucking pressure while he kept fingering my ass, and suddenly I was whimpering, “Please, please,” and raking my fingers into his hair, probably clawing his scalp more than once, pushing myself between his lips in a way that was way more aggressive than I’d ever let myself be with a woman giving me head, and I swear, he never resisted, never once pulled away or pushed me back, he just kept going, maybe coming up to nurse the crown when I relented, then sinking down on me again, and then the finger he had up my ass slipped from inside of me, and I thought, “Thank God,” but even though he was sucking me with as much enthusiasm and skill as ever—if anything pulling me even closer to the edge but always backing off the second I teetered and almost fell—I realized I wanted it again, that penetration, that unfamiliar, fretful torment of those delicate nerves.