A Good Morning

Christopher Bosch wakes up with a snootful of breakfast scents—waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs, and coffee—a mouthful of nasty-ass death, and a skullful of marching band.

Groaning, he rolls onto his left side, away from the window, in case he forgot to close the drapes, and opens his eyes. His bedroom is bleary and dim, lit only by the sunlight that’s managed to sneak in under the thankfully shut drapes. A glance at his clock shows that it’s closer to midday than sunrise.

What in hell happened? Even I don’t usually sleep this late . . . what—? And before Christopher can even finish forming the plaintive question in his mind, last night comes rushing back with the force and velocity of the planet Mercury.

He remembers begging Matt to move in with him for the umpteenth time and Matt saying that that would maybe never happen. Christopher remembers feeling that never like a hammer-blow to the chest and needing to leave—to get away from Matt before he exploded, and did or said something he couldn’t take back.

Oh, he remembers getting back to the penthouse and drinking his sorrows no further away. Beer after imported beer, bong hit after apocalyptic bong hit, and all he’d been able to do was sit in his steadily darkening living room and try not to cry. And, when that ultimately failed, let the darkness hide his tears from the world, himself included.

Then, after hours of this, when Christopher had achieved a thin, disturbed half-slumber, Matt had shown up, and . . . everything had changed. Not Matt, per say, but Christopher’s understanding of this man whom he loves beyond all logical meaning of the word.

It isn’t, he’d realized with a flash that’d cut through the druggy, boozy sludge that’d been his tumultuous mind and heart. It isn’t that he doesn’t love me enough to come live with me. It’s that he’s scared that he’ll uproot his life and in a month or a year or two years, I’ll leave him. He’s afraid that once I get used to him, I’ll get bored and want someone—anyone who isn’t him.

Matt doesn’t talk a lot about his track record, but from what Christopher’s been able to glean, it wasn’t a promising one. Littered with ex-lovers who’d, for some insane, unfathomable reason, grown tired of Matt—or claimed to—then left him.

It’s my job to be the one that stays, Christopher thinks beyond the marching band in his skull, blinking till his eyes get used to being open and taking in even the fuzzy light of his bedroom. It’s my job, even if it takes the rest of my life, to convince him that I’m not going anywhere. Not without him.

And on the heels of that thought: With Matt’s insecurities and no doubt validated fears about being left in the lurch, this is going to be a pretty big challenge.

Then, thinking of the way Matt smiles at him in the morning, when they wake up together, so unguarded and wondering and happy . . . Christopher smiles to himself.

Challenge accepted.

And with that decided, it’s time to get up . . . a thing easier said than done, on this morning.

“Ah, fuck,” Christopher mutters, as he rolls to a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and cursing his binge self-medicating. “I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

Just then, his bladder begins lodging complaints with the management, as well.

“Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit!” He levers himself out of bed and crab-walks at lightspeed—well, half-lightspeed, due to the raging piss hard-on—to the bathroom, praying he makes it in time.

Nonetheless, there’s still a smile on his face.

*

Showered—but not shaven, not yet, Matt likes him with Miami Vice-stubble . . . loves when Christopher rasps that stubble across the soft skin of his inner thighs—and somewhat refreshed, Christopher exits the bathroom in his robe, running a hand through his wet hair.

The marching band in his skull has eased up, his mouth now tastes of nothing more odious than Crest Whitening, his bladder is cavernously empty—much like his stomach—and the snootful of breakfast scents has intensified, and had tortured him through the fastest shower in the history of bathing.

Padding barefoot through his bedroom and down the hall, past the den and the living room, Christopher pauses in the kitchen entryway, his usual: G’morning, beautiful, falling soundlessly from his lips as his eyes land on Matt, and he is . . . floored.

The other man is standing near the windows, in nothing but his jeans, on the cordless with someone. His back is to the entryway, so Christopher has the perfect view of Matt’s broad, muscular shoulders and broad, muscular back—both inked to a fare-thee-well with Germanic runes and symbols—tapering to a narrow waist and the jeans that are hanging almost perilously off of Matt’s gorgeous ass.

“. . . yeah, I really need today, Marty. If I come in, I’m gonna be a mess, doin’ everything twice just to make sure I did it right the first time. Yeah. Yeah. I’m sorry, but I’m really not on my game today . . . what? Oh, no.” Matt laughs his low, rumbling chuckle and runs a hand over his shaven head. “No, not on my game isn’t terminal, and it is just for today. I know I don’t usually take days off without at least a week’s notice, but something came up and I kinda just need to be home, today. Okay. Okay. No—yeah, that’s fine. I can make up the hours whenever you need me to. Okay. Right. Thanks, I will. Okay, ‘bye, Marty.”

Matt hangs up, but Christopher’s already heading back to his bedroom—someday to be their bedroom—his mind on his night table, and the tube of cherry-flavored lube therein.

*

Matt Gerdes hangs up, smiling a little, and placing his phone on the windowsill.

Marty’s a good friend and an even better supervisor. That promotion couldn’t have gone to a better guy. Matt himself had, because of the pay-raise, been tempted to go after the supervisory position, himself, but in the end, the longer hours and greater responsibility, coupled with less time spent on hands-on work, had turned him off the promotion pretty quickly.

And a supervisor certainly couldn’t just call out, like Matt had just done.

Smile widening, Matt shuffles to the stove—which had been pristine, if a bit dusty, since Christopher could barely microwave left-over take-out without causing a nuclear meltdown—and makes certain everything is turned off or to low, before listening for the shower.

Off. And, he realizes, he hadn’t been hearing it for a few minutes.

Which means Christopher will be strolling into the kitchen, shaved and dressed, in a few more minutes, to the surprise breakfast Matt had prepared—after a quick trip to Gristedes for some supplies and staples.

Unaware that his smile has turned quite moony and dreamy, Matt switches the burners to OFF and begins dishing up breakfast.

He’s an old hand at it, so it goes quickly: waffles, bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, and juice, spread out on Christopher’s kitchen table with two place settings.

After taking a moment to admire his handiwork—he’d have made some lucky man one hell of a housewife, in another life—he turns back to the center island to clear it of pans, bowls, and the whisk—which Christopher hadn’t even had . . . Matt had had to buy one at Gristedes, and all that had cost was a down payment on a small two-bedroom.

When the counter is clear and the sink full, Matt sighs, quite satisfied with himself, and leans on the counter, gazing at the breakfast spread, and thinking about how . . . wonderful it’d be if every morning was exactly like this.

And it could be, he tells himself wistfully. If I move in with Christopher, I can play the happy housewife every day for . . . for as long as it takes for this whole thing to go south.

Sighing again, Matt closes his eyes and hangs his head. Who’s to say it will go south? Just because my exes got sick of me, doesn’t mean Christopher will, does it? He’s so . . . different from the others. He makes me feel like I’m the most special person in the world. It’s as if he falls in love with me every day for the first time. No one’s ever made me feel that way so consistently. Or at all.

But how long will that last if I move in with him? How long can it last?

Maybe . . . maybe forever, if I believe Christopher . . . do I believe him?

“There’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,” Matt mumbles, opening his eyes just in time to spot motion out of the corner of them. From his left, toward the entryway, and before he can even process that he’s seen the motion, there’s a warm body pressed to his back and gentle kisses wending their way down his nape, to his shoulder, where they linger.

Long hands settle on his hips, squeezing possessively, before hooking in his jeans and pushing them down. They land in a puddle at Matt’s feet with a merry jingle of belt buckle and he steps out of them, kicking them out of the way. Those hands settle once more, this time on bare skin. Matt shivers and groans, bracing his hands on the counter and leaning back into the body behind his own.

“G’morning, beautiful,” is kissed into his shoulder, into the rune for happiness.

“M-morning. . . .”

The hands on Matt’s hips slide toward each other to take Matt in hand as the kisses on his shoulder turn into playful bites. “You’re so sexy, baby . . . I want you right. Now.”

“B-but, Laszlo, honey . . . my boyfriend’ll be awake at any minute, now. . . .”

“Haha.” Twin gusts of humid air on his neck cause Matt to break out in goose flesh after a prolonged shiver. Then the hands alternately stroking him to hardness slide back to his hips to pull them backward, till there’s a matching and tantalizing hardness pressed against his behind. And that hardness is no aimless morning wood to be taken care of by sleepy, early morning frottage, no. This hardness means business, as do the hips pumping it slowly, with restrained power, against him.

“God, Christopher—”

“Shh, baby . . . lemme take care of you. . . .”

The hands, so warm and strong, leave Matt’s hips for a few seconds before one comes back to take him in hand and resume stroking. Matt hisses at the cool gel-feel that engulfs him and the scent of cherries—which, thanks to Matt’s own preference for cherry-flavored lube, has come to mean SEX—that surrounds him.

“Sorry, baby . . . couldn’t wait for it to warm up.”

Shivering, still, Matt chuckles a little. “’S okay. . . .”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.” A gentle kiss presses itself to Matt’s right earlobe and the hand stroking him speeds up a little, warming the gel significantly. After nearly a minute of no-nonsense strokes cloaked in slippery caresses, Matt lets out a long, low, surprised groan when the other hand, seemingly long-absent, is heard from once more. Warm, slippery fingers stroke between the cheeks of his behind and he spreads his legs, murmuring: yes, please. Those fingers inch and tease their way down to the small patch of skin behind his balls to pluck and rub and tug.

Matt squeezes tight eyes he wasn’t even aware of closing as he pushes himself into the fist enclosing him, then back onto the fingers that, after a few minutes of playing, make their torturous way to his entrance to trace delicately around the pulsing, anticipatory pucker.

“Please,” Matt breathes, trying to impale himself on those feather-light fingers. Very little has surprised him more about their relationship than his own need to have Christopher inside him, in some fashion, as frequently as possible. “Oh, Christopher. . . .”

“So sexy . . . so beautiful.” More kisses that turn into nibbles of Matt’s earlobe and neck. “And you’re aaaaall mine.”

“Yours, yes,” Matt agrees wholeheartedly and almost mindlessly. Then he’s crying out in pleasure-pain as two of those formerly gentle fingers press into him steadily and implacably, breaking past the guardian ring of muscle with the wet, obscene, delicious sound of flesh on flesh becoming flesh in flesh.

“And I’m yours,” is whispered softly into Matt’s ear, followed by a slightly shaky nuzzle. “Yours forever and always. You never have to question that.”

By now, Matt’s arms are shaking, not from the strain of holding himself up, but from the restraint it takes to not simply fuck himself on his lover’s fingers. Clever, determined fingers that scissor themselves inside him, stretching him even as they search for Matt’s spot.

Not that they’ve ever had to search for long. This time is no different. And Matt’s wavering yell echoes off the walls of the kitchen less than a minute later.

“I love how responsive you are.” Another kiss lands on Matt’s shoulder, slightly muffling the words. “Love how tight and hot you are around me. Like you never wanna let me go.”

“I don’t. . . .” Matt pants, clenching his muscles as tight as he can and spreading his legs as far as he dares. Sweat runs down his forehead and temples. Down his back, despite the cool air of the kitchen. “I don’t ever wanna let you go.”

That matching hardness presses against Matt’s behind again, in a series of truncated thrusts.

“Gonna have to, for a moment, baby. Unless you just want me to finger you till you come.” Traces of amusement color the beloved voice, but there’s a willingness there, too. Matt knows that whatever he wants most, now, he’ll get.

And he wants it all.

But mostly, he wants. . . .

“I want your cock,” he breathes forcing his muscles to relax, to let go for the moments it’ll take for those fingers to pull out and be replaced by something markedly bigger.

A soft groan sounds behind him, and sooner, rather than later, Matt is empty, and lamenting that awful fact . . . for all of ten seconds, before the hand stroking him joins its mate behind him, holding him open.

“Ready?”

“God, yes.”

Then Matt’s being spread open even more, bared to the cool air for a few seconds until heat and blunt, slippery hardness press at his entrance, press in, slow and focused. Past that initial ring of muscle, till it’s in him part-way, and his body struggles between accepting the intruder and trying to force it out. Matt’s muscles flutter helplessly under this delightful assault and his fingers scrabble for purchase on the marble countertop, scattering napkins and take-out menus.

“Ready?” Desperation in that solicitousness, this time. Desperation and strain. “God, please tell me you’re ready, sweetie?”

“Read-yyyyyyyy!” Matt starts to say, but before he can finish, that heat, that blunt hardness, is driving itself home, all the way to Matt’s core, it seems, and he’s crying out again, tears springing to his eyes as their bodies come together with a titanic crash.

“Oh . . . oh. . . .” is breathed into his ear as the body now plastered to his own comes to a stop inside him—stills and waits as heavy breaths are huffed in and out. “Fuck, baby . . . you don’t even know how good you feel. . . .”

Then the heat, the blunt, the blunt hardness—Christopher—pulls out of him slowly, moaning and swearing under his breath. Until—barely still in Matt but for one bare inch—he drives himself back in with one hard thrust that drives Matt forward on the countertop, occasioning loud squeaks as Matt’s slippery hands slide across the unmarred surface.

This is perfection. It is completion. It is rightness so keen and pleasure so sharp, it’s nearly agony, as Christopher pulls out then reclaims Matt with gathering speed and increasing force, managing to hit more than he misses that tiny, yet important protrusion that drives the air out of Matt and leaves him to yell hoarsely, breathlessly.

When Christopher’s regained his bearings, he reaches around Matt to stroke him in a perfect counterpoint to his thrusts. The touch of his hand is sweet, dirty, and unbearable.

Beyond any form of self-control, now, Matt simply gives in to his body’s demands—and the demands of Christopher’s body—letting himself be stroked and squeezed, kissed and nuzzled, forsaken—briefly—then filled.

Pleasured, and used for another’s pleasure.

He is lost to it, to this joining of bodies and souls, and hopes to never be found.

*

Christopher’s body is a pleasure-machine set to OVERLOAD.

As ever it has been since that first night, oh, so long ago.

He’s got one hand on Matt’s dick, trying his best to keep up a sustained and rhythmic stroke, and the other hand on Matt’s left cheek, simultaneously for balance, admittance, and because it just feels good. He’s torn between watching the play of muscles in Matt’s back—oh, how the Elder Futhark jump and dance—and watching the seemingly small place where their bodies are connected. Watching his dick slide in and out of Matt’s body—watching that tiny, swollen, pink pucker take him and take him as if it can’t get enough of him.

Eventually, his eyes settle on the latter. Even after more than a year of seeing it, it’s still the hottest thing Christopher’s ever seen, and likely ever will see. As fan-freaking-tastic as it feels to be inside Matt, to watch himself take Matt over and over is at least as responsible for the orgasm uncurling its way from his balls—and the bases of spine and dick—as the actual deed.

“Unh . . . coming,” Christopher grits out, aware of his thrusts and strokes speeding up. Aware of his skin tingling all over, like fireworks going off under his epidermis. “Coming. . . .”

And he’s super aware of the way Matt’s juddering and shaking beneath him like an old jalopy down a dirt road. Matt’s arms are trembling, his biceps twitching, his head hanging, and the muscles that surround Christopher’s aching dick are twitching and convulsing tight.

“Chri—” Matt is saying over and over, unable to get out the rest of Christopher’s name. He only gets that way when he’s about to come, and Christopher smiles, panting and laughing a little.

“Come for me, baby,” he breathes, leaning down closer to kiss the words into Matt’s back. Into the rune for good fortune. “Come for me.”

And his faltering stroke becomes a brief fondle of Matt’s balls as he once again seeks out that small patch of skin between balls and entrance. He rubs and tugs on and pinches until with a high keen, Matt’s body clamps down on Christopher. With another series of hoarse yells, Matt’s suddenly coming hard, each pulse, each spurt palpable to Christopher’s fingers and clenched-around dick, bringing him closer to the edge and wringing from his strung body a release that threatens to erase both sense and sense of self.

Christopher hangs on the cusp of this orgasm for eternity, lost to the pleasure-pain of anticipation as Matt’s body slowly eases up on his own, and his own thrusts lose rhythm altogether, though not power. He pushes Matt’s body forward with his own, thrusting into his lover’s shaking, spent, quivering flesh hard and fast, until finally, his release is a promise kept.

Christopher thrusts once—twice—a third time—hard—and that gathering, burning, prickling sensation seems to uncoil from his very soul, spreading outward as a flush of heat and pleasure that has him burying his face in Matt’s shoulder even as he gasps his lover’s name, while being slowly obliterated by white light.

*

Matt regains his sense of self just before Christopher does, and just in time to catch himself before they both go tumbling to the kitchen floor in a flail of limbs and cherry-scented air.

His legs feel like overcooked spaghetti; his behind and every muscle therein is sore and tired; he's steadily leaking a warm trickle of cherry lube and Christopher's come, plus his rubbery-feeling arms are barely enough to hold himself up, let alone Christopher. But somehow, they get the job done.

And it takes a few minutes for Christopher to start to stir his nearly dead-weight from Matt—who hisses as Christopher’s spent cock slides out of him—but when he lets out a heavy huff on Matt’s shoulder, one that sounds like a laugh, Matt grins. Lets himself be held close and tight, and petted and stroked wherever Christopher’s wandering, admiring hands fall.

“Sex,” Christopher murmurs proudly.

“Mmhmm.”

“In the morning, no less.”

“As promised.” Matt glances at the kitchen clock—it’s 11:47 a.m.—then turns his head toward Christopher’s in time for a kiss on the cheek that wanders almost aimlessly mouth-ward. “And, as promised, I made you waffles from scratch.”

“Mmhmm.” Christopher’s kisses take a turn down to Matt’s shoulder, across his back, to his spine, where they wend their way south, mouthing the outlines of runes. Christopher’s arms briefly bracket Matt’s on the counter, till, with a grunt, and a sudden grasping of Matt’s waist, he goes to his knees. He kisses the small of Matt’s back, then his right cheek, then his left, before holding Matt open to press tender, reverent kisses to the swollen, still twitching opening. “I love you.”

“I love you, too—oooohhhhhh.” At the first insistent flickers of Christopher’s tongue, Matt lets out a long moan, and his body goes boneless, his arms once more a-tremble as they fight to keep him upright.

“God,” Christopher exhales, humid and warm against Matt’s pulsing, anticipatory opening. “No wonder cherry’s, like, my favorite flavor, now.”

Matt barks out a half-strangled laugh as Christopher laps and rasps at his sensitized entrance, licking him into happy incoherence, and—

—and breakfast doesn’t get eaten till it’s very, very cold.

END