Fredric’s thumb hovered over his keys. In theory, Ilan could see him any time. He didn’t want their relationship changing who they were to each other. His door had never been closed to Ilan before, and he wasn’t about to start that now. But he also knew that the faster Ilan moved, the more he’d start to panic.
He furrowed his brow, hating that his life was so small now. He was doing so little that it would be too easy to let this be his sole focus.
Fredric: I have plans today, but soon. Did you have something in mind?
Ilan: Someone mentioned something about wine and panting cacti?
Fredric: I’ll see what the art studio has going on and call you later. I miss you.
Ilan: Do you really? Did you miss me before all this?
Fredric: Yes, dear heart. I always missed you. The only difference is I’m aware of how badly I want to kiss you now.
Ilan: Fuck.
Fredric pressed his phone to the center of his chest and resisted the very real urge to call a car to take him right over to Ilan’s. He knew if he did that, there would be no taking it slow. If he got his hands on Ilan now—if he heard his hitching breath, felt his racing heart, pressed their bodies together, and let all the evidence of Ilan’s want press against his hip, he wouldn’t be able to resist it.
He had barely kept it together the night before, and his well of restraint was finite. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip and tasted the echoes of Ilan’s mouth. How different it had been to kiss him—to kiss a man. Ilan had been a wall of muscle under his fingers, his lips a little dry, his scruff rubbing Fredric’s chin and cheek raw. His hands had been gentle, but pressing—his thick fingers unrelenting as they dug into the back of Fredric’s neck.
It was everything he’d ever imagined and so much more—so much better, and he wanted to experience all of it. He wanted to touch and to be touched. He wanted Ilan to lay him out and drag him over the edge. He wanted to feel tongue and a hint of teeth as his cock pushed up into a warm, willing mouth. He wanted to feel Ilan’s fingers push up inside of him and spread him wide.
He was so hard it was almost painful, and Fredric dropped his phone on the counter and made his way to his bedroom. Closing the door, he took in a deep breath, but he knew he needed this. He hadn’t touched himself in so long, and now that he knew what Ilan tasted like, he couldn’t hold back.
He made it to the bed, one knee propped up before he gave into his need. He fumbled with his zipper for a second, but then his cock was out—heavy and hard against his palm. It wasn’t wet enough, but that wouldn’t matter. Not today. He’d been on the edge since he’d pulled Ilan to his feet and pressed their bodies together in the mimic of a slow dance.
He hadn’t said a word, but Ilan had been half-hard against his thigh the entire time, and Fredric had spent long, long moments weighing the consequences of sliding his hand down and pressing the heel of his palm against it. He knew he’d get permission to touch—eventually. He knew that the next step between them was inevitable—and it would be beautiful and overwhelming, and it would eclipse any fantasy Fredric had ever had.
But for now, this would have to do. For now, he dug deep into the dark edges of his mind and recalled exactly how it felt when Ilan’s tongue slipped into his mouth. It was warm, slick, and tasted like spices. When Ilan kissed him goodnight, it had been possessive. He’d held Fredric by the back of his head, tipped back to take all of him, to be surrounded by him.
Ilan’s groan had rumbled against his lips, sending sparks of need flying through his limbs. And somehow, he had walked away from it. Somehow, he’d gone home and climbed in bed and fallen asleep without letting himself acknowledge just how much he wanted the other man.
Until now.
He squeezed the base of his dick, then picked up a furious rhythm, feeling heat rising up his chest, making his cheeks tingle and his mouth go dry. “Ilan,” he breathed out.
‘Yes,’ the Ilan in his head whispered back. He’d stand close, his hand moving on Fredric’s cock, his lips moving against Fredric’s cheek. ‘Yes.’
Fredric bowed forward, his knees giving way. He caught himself, but it was his weaker arm, and he lost strength as his orgasm plowed through him. His come splattered the blanket under where he collapsed, and he gasped for breath as his heart pounded against his ribs.
For a moment, he was afraid. If just the idea of Ilan brought him hurtling over the edge like this, what would it be like to finally have him? Ebbing pleasure rippled through him as he rolled over, grimacing at the cool air, and the way his come made his shirt stick to his skin. His body was still trembling as he forced himself to stand, and he shed his clothes before walking into the bathroom and running a cloth under the tap.
The cold water brought him back down, at least enough that he could get dressed without fumbling. There was a mess on the comforter though, drying sticky as he ran his fingers over it, and he contemplated throwing the damn thing out because the last humiliation he wanted to suffer was to ask Agatha to help him have the damn thing cleaned.
And then the thought had him laughing. God, how his life had changed. A year ago, he’d been consumed with work just to avoid going home. He was so tired he hadn’t considered the needs of his dick in years. The most action he saw was his unfortunate morning wood pressing against his sheets, and it was always gone before he got into the shower.
His lips met Jacqueline’s cheeks in passing kisses that meant nothing—less than nothing. The smell of her perfume had settled into something that made his stomach twist, and the sound of her heels—which once set his heart racing—left him simmering in discontent.
And now he was falling to his knees, jacking off to his son’s best friend.
There was probably a special place in hell for a man like him, but at least he’d know ecstasy and endless pleasure before he got there.
Running a hand down his face, Fredric balled the comforter up and tossed it into the far corner of his closet, then dug into his linen closet for the spare. It smelled a little stale and a little like lavender, and it wasn’t as nice as his other one, but it would do the trick.
His domesticity had become strange and alien, and yet, as he put together a quick breakfast, he realized something so small and so utterly profound: he was happy. For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, Fredric was actually happy.
Fredric managed to keep himself busy for the next two days, giving Ilan his attention in the evenings as they chatted on the phone and ate dinner—just a few miles apart that felt like a thousand. But Ilan sounded calmer without expectation or pressure, and Fredric felt like maybe for the first time in a damn long time, he was doing something right.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ilan asked as Fredric rattled off the time for the wine and paint party.
Fredric’s fork hovered near his lips, but he didn’t take his bite. “You know I can paint, right. I mean, I’m not looking for a career change or anything, but…”
“When have I ever implied you can’t do something,” Ilan bit back, sounding a little irritated. “That isn’t what I meant. I just want to make sure it’s something you want to do.”