The weather is unseasonably warm for September. I wake up the morning of the seventh with the sheets in a twisted heap at my feet and Aaron curled against my side.
His thin white tank top is scrunched up around the bottom of his ribs, revealing the pale skin of his flat stomach, and his dark-blue briefs have slipped low on his hips. My eyes are drawn to the cleft of his cute ass, just visible above the band.
Reluctantly, I pull away from him, and he makes a sleepy noise of protest. I pull the sheets up and cover him. I might be sweating, but he always tends to run a little cool.
I shower and brush my teeth, and come back to find him unmoved. Crawling back to lie beside him, I watch him for a moment. His lips are flushed with sleep, and his long lashes rest on his cheeks. Combing my fingers through his silky black hair, I kiss his mouth. He mumbles something against my lips and shifts, but doesn't wake.
I slide a hand between his legs and palm him through his briefs, stroking gently until I feel him start to grow hard.
"Ow!"
I jolt back as he pinches my side, and find him grinning up at me, blue eyes lit with amusement. "That's what you get for assaulting a guy in his sleep, you perv," he says.
"Well, now that you're awake, I can do things properly..." I slide my hand up the smooth skin of his side and move to kiss him, but he sits up.
"What time is it?" he frowns, grabbing for his phone. "Shit. I have to go," he jumps up and starts to pull on clothes, disappearing into the bathroom.
I sit at the end of the bed and wait for him to emerge. When he does, he looks ready for work. "I thought you were taking the day off?" I ask, frowning.
"I can't. I have a huge order to finish, and the Fall selection is behind schedule." He pauses at the bedroom door. "I'm sorry—did you have something planned?"
"What? Oh... no," I laugh. "Don't worry about it. Will you... be home for dinner?"
"I don't know. I'll see what I can do. Hey—I love you." He comes back and kisses me, tasting minty and fresh. "Bye."
Then he's gone.
I flop back on the bed, feeling dejected.
I'd told the truth. I hadn't made any plans.
On the other hand, I'd thought he might have made some.
It's my birthday, after all.
~
Aaron's been working hard lately, as usual. Both sides of our business are doing great, but his is legitimately booming; and as if the candy wasn't enough, he's expanded to catering as well.
Some other business refused to cater a lesbian wedding, and Aaron stepped in and offered to give it a shot, pro bono. It went so well, he ended up booked through the end of the year.
I understand—and it's not like he's been neglecting me or anything—but sometimes I just want to take him away somewhere, tie him up, fuck him hard, and teach him to relax. Not necessarily in that order.
Ten minutes of wallowing is enough, and I force myself to get up and decide what to do with the rest of the day. I'd taken it off, and I'd thought Aaron would too. Now I don't know what to do with myself.
I decide to go for a ride.
I love my bike. It's a top brand, and I got it at a steep discount through a promo deal with the shop. It's way beyond anything I'd be able to afford otherwise. Besides Aaron, it's my baby.
I can't ride like I once did—a hundred miles at a time, pushing through pain and fatigue just for the reward of knowing what my body can do—but recently I've at least been able to get back into the rhythm of regular rides.
I take a series of back streets and side roads, skirting the busier areas. When it comes to traffic, I'm still a little gun-shy, but there's a paved bike trail on the edge of town, and it's peacefully deserted at this time of day. I ride its whole ten-mile length—farther than I've gone so far.
Taking my time, with plenty of stops to rest my leg, I get back home around noon, hang my bike up in the garage, and go in for a shower.
When I come out, wrapped in a loose towel, a noise makes me freeze. It sounds like someone dropping something in the kitchen. But I'm the only one at home.
Heart in my mouth, I creep forward down the hall. On the way, I grab a framed picture from the wall. It's not much of a weapon, but it's the only thing at hand. In the frame, Aaron laughs up at me while I grin at the camera. My mom took it the last time she visited.
Rounding the corner, I prepare to defend my home with life and limb, deadly picture-frame in hand.
What I see sends all thoughts of violence—all thoughts of any kind, actually—fleeing my mind like doves released en masse.
Aaron stands at the stove, stirring something in a small saucepan and humming to himself.
That isn't so odd. I've seen that plenty of times.
What's different is that he's wearing nothing but his candy-making apron. It's tied loosely around his slender waist, the tails trailing over his bare ass and swaying between his legs as he rocks gently to whatever tune is playing in his head.
I make some noise—probably a sort of choking, gagging sound—and he turns towards me, lips spreading in that beautiful smile I love so much.
His bare shoulders and arms look pale and graceful, and I don't know why the hell it turns me on so much, seeing him like this, except that it's the two things I love most in this world reduced to their barest elements:
this man and his candy.
"Aaron...?" My voice is strained and breathless.
He lifts a silicone spatula from the saucepan. It's dripping chocolate in silky strands. He gives a quick twist with his wrist, twirling the ribbons, and then brings it to his mouth and licks it, red tongue turning dark with molten sweet. He swallows and bites his lip.
"Almost ready," he says, eyes locked on mine. On the counter, a plate of strawberries waits.
I move towards him, wondering if maybe I've had a heart attack, and my body is lying dead in the shower or something, because this looks like heaven.
He turns back to the pan, stirring the contents with the lazy self-assurance of the professional. I come and stand at his back, breathing in the scent of him, and trail my fingers from his shoulders down his lightly muscled arms.
"Uh-uh," he chides, prying my hands off with the handle of his spatula. "No touching. Not yet."
"Aaron," I whisper. It seems like the only word I know.
He smirks. "What? Did you think I forgot?" He laughs. It's a low, sinful sound. "Now back off, before you get burned."
I do as he says, but instead of heaven, now I'm in some kind of chocolate-themed hell, watching and not allowed to touch. I realize I'm still wrapped in nothing but the towel, and that I'm painfully erect.
Two can play at this game. I let the towel fall and wait for him to turn.
When he does, his eyes drop and go dark. He licks his lips. "Well... dip me in chocolate and call me a banana pop," he says.
I should be used to it by now, but it still makes me choke, and I have to yield the victory. As ever, he wins.
"Not long now," he assures me.
The strawberries are perfect—long-stemmed and just the right size for a single bite, plump and red. He takes each by the stem between his finger and thumb, and dips them expertly in the melted chocolate. Then he sets them on a sheet of wax paper cool.
When the last is done, he dips his own fingers in the cooling chocolate and comes towards me, rolling his hips. He slides his fingers past my lips, across my tongue.
"Suck," he demands.
I suck him clean.
When he withdraws his fingers, a string of saliva trails from my mouth. He wipes his fingers on his apron, and then his mouth is on mine, hot and wet, and hungry.
"Do you want me?" he asks, when he comes up for air, lips swollen and slick.
The question is rhetorical.
"God... yes."
His smile stretches a little wider.
"Did you really think I forgot?"
"I... yes..."
"I love you Blake Welling, but you're an idiot sometimes."
I can't argue. Most of my blood is below my waist, for one thing.
He takes my hand and pulls me into the living room. There, he kisses me again, sucking my tongue like it's one of his strawberries.
"Lie down," he says, hands on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees.
I do as he says, lying back on the carpet. He kneels over me. I can't see what he's doing behind the drape of his apron, but I feel it when he takes me in his hand and guides the head of my cock to his hole.
"Wait..." I gasp. "Are you ready?"
He grins. "That was a long ride you went on, babe. I'm more than ready, and now it's my turn."
He throws his head back and impales himself on my length in a single, swift motion.
I can't breathe.
"Oh God—fuck!" I gasp, struggling for air.
"That's the idea," he says, smirking.
He rides me, taking his own pleasure, slow and sensuous. I see the red tip of his tongue against his lips and he gasps softly as he moves with me inside him.
Finally, I can't bear it anymore, and he knows it. He gives himself to me hard and fast.
A cry tears itself from my lips as I come, and he thrusts down, taking me deep.
Slowly, he pulls off me, my softening shaft slicked with lube and my own spill.
His mouth finds mine once more.
"Happy birthday, you sick fuck," he says. "Don't expect this every year."
~♡♡♡~