And then it receded, leaving me bereft and replete at the same time, all the gorgeous tension now replaced by something shimmery and bright. I slumped forward.
With a growl, Angel grabbed my waist and began railing into me, taking advantage of my body being open and soft, fucking me with hard, merciless thrusts that had my sensitive organ twitching, trying vainly to swell again.
I buried my mouth in Angel’s neck, raking my teeth over the damp skin, and then finally sealing my mouth on the tender spot at the base of his throat and sucking as his thrusts grew erratic and shuddering. With a sudden exhale, he got bigger and harder inside of me, and then started filling me up with jerking throbs, his feet moving against the bottom of the tub as he fought to keep himself wedged as deep in my backside as possible.
He was cursing up a storm, those hands that could make such beautiful, delicate things now gripping my flesh with bruising intensity, and he kept fucking me through it all, like he couldn’t stop, never wanted to stop.
I never wanted it to stop either. Who needed a job or hobbies when there was a bathtub filled with bubbles and Angel Fletcher? Who needed food or handcrafted cocktails when there was a perfect cock to sit on and the deepest, sweetest eyes to gaze into?
But finally Angel’s body stilled inside me, and I stopped abusing the skin near his throat. I nestled my head against his shoulder instead as our breathing settled and he eased himself from my body.
“I think,” I said, watching a clear oil slick of lube collide with an iceberg of bubbles, “we need to take a bath after our bath.”
Angel laughed. “Yes, getting clean didn’t work out so well for us, did it?”
Within a few minutes though, we’d drained the lingering bubbles, lube, and cum from the tub, and had a fresh bath going, with fresh bubbles too. I brought us both a glass of chilled wine and a can of fizzy water—flat water was for peasants—and then crawled back in to cuddle against Angel’s chest. He had the kind of body that I sometimes felt self-conscious around, tall and trim, if not overtly muscular, and he moved with an easy, graceful strength that would make runway models topple over in their heels with envy. In contrast, I was shorter, softer, less toned. It shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter—except in LA’s brutal meatmarket of a dating scene, sometimes it did.
But with Angel, I never felt unsexy or unattractive. Angel grabbed and fondled and fucked me like I was the sexiest man that had ever graced this horrible city; he looked at me like he was trying to etch the memory of me into his brain so he could masturbate to it later.
Since that’s how I felt about him, it was dizzying to know that it was mutual.
“I’m glad you walked onto my film set,” I said softly, stroking along the inside of his wrist.
He nuzzled my hair. “Who knew my ‘oh no I still don’t have a real job’ summer job would net me such rewards?”
I smiled, still playing my fingers along the inside of his wrist. The space between our words was filled with the cheerful fizz of bubbles and the music I’d turned on when I’d gotten our wine, music that Angel cheerfully called my main character in an indie movie having a montage playlist. Angel preferred really complicated and obscure electronic music, especially the kind that was supposed to sync up your brain waves or whatever. And that was not my idea of a post-coital vibe.
“You know,” Angel said after a moment, his hand toying with the short hair at the nape of my neck, “if you ever want to talk about your tragic Oregonian backstory . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure it will come up at some point,” I assured him. “But it comes up less than it used to, these days.”
“Oh?”
I kissed his wet chest and then snuggled closer, savoring the feel of his chest hair against my cheek. “There was therapy, and that helped a lot, but you know what helped even more?”
“Moving away from Carharttville, Oregon?” Angel asked dryly.
“Well, that,” I said with a puff of laughter, “but actually . . . I think it was the people I found after moving more than the moving itself. You, of course, and Bee, and Sunny—and honestly, your dad has been more like a dad to me than my own father. He’s picked me up from being stranded on the highway and gone with me to the mechanic to make sure they don’t screw me on repairs. He’s helped me replace washing machine hoses and babysat my hermit crab when I’ve gone out of town.”
“Didn’t that crab die like a week later because Dad fed it tap water?”
“The point is,” I said over him, “I came here and suddenly I had people I could call, people I could count on to show up, people to have Thanksgiving and Christmas with. It made me realize—like, really realize—that my family acting like they didn’t know what to do with me was all about them. There was a whole world of people waiting to love me as I was.”
Angel kissed my head, holding me close. “I’m honored to have been a part of that,” he murmured, and I pressed my lips against his chest again.
“What about you?” I asked after a moment. “Any tragic backstory there?”
“Alas and much to the detriment of my art, no. My mom is a super fierce ally, and you know Teddy. He’s a soft touch when it comes to everything. It’s why he and my mom got divorced, actually. She was tired of coming home and finding random strays crashing in the guest room until they could find work. She’s really generous, but she was also really protective of us. It was one thing for her husband to make porn, but to have his work leaking into the family sphere was a different story. Plus they’re both workaholics. I think she woke up one day and realized she barely knew him. It broke his heart.”
“Poor Teddy.”
“Yeah. I guess if I have any backstory, that’s it. I’ve spent the last ten years watching the aftermath of what being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back does. It’s not pretty.”
His words were light, but I heard the ache laced through them. And abruptly, I wanted Angel to know. Not only because of what he’d said, and not only because the water was warm and the bubbles were fluffy and because my favorite main character in an indie movie having a montage song was playing. But because I didn’t want to keep it to myself anymore. Because being secretive and cautious and invulnerable . . . it no longer felt safe.
It felt lonely.
“I love you, Angel,” I blurted out. “I love you a lot. Too much. So much it scares me.”
Angel used his fingers to tip my face up to his. I blinked up into his bottomless eyes.
“I love you too,” he said simply.
“I should have told you in Vermont,” I said, high on the rush of my bravery. “I loved you then. But I was terrified. I’ve imagined myself in love so many times, but it had never felt like this. Like I’ve backstitched my heart to yours, and I’ll die instantly if you pull away.”
Angel’s hand moved, cradling the side of my face, his fingers in my hair. “Luca, I’ve loved you since the day you walked into my father’s office with a sewing machine in one hand and a pair of old ice skates in the other. It was the best day of my life when I got up the courage to finally kiss you.”
I had so much more I wanted to say—so much more I wanted to ask. What did being in love mean for us? For what came next? Could there even realistically be a next for us, after everything that had happened?