Page 63 of The Lipstick Flip

But he made the sound again, so I let go, and he scooted backward. He was panting. His lips were puffy. His chin and cheeks glazed with spit. The front of the Mizzou sweatshirt dark with slobber. I got to my feet, and he followed me with his eyes.

This time, I took his head in both hands. And then I fucked his face.

Not too hard, at first. Not too rough, even though that was what he wanted. Steady. And then, when he had some time to adjust, forcing deeper, into his throat.

He took me like a champ; he always had.

So much tighter. So much…more, in every way. The feel of him around me. The helplessness in his face. The tears. The snot. The way he tried to breathe through his nose until finally—finally—I pulled off enough for him to gasp in air, and then I was fucking in again, taking his mouth. He was grabbing my thighs hard enough to drive his nails into the flesh, and I knew I’d feel it later, but for the time being, it was just Noah, and the way he looked at me, and the feeling of being inside him.

When I got close, I moved faster. And then faster. And then I tipped myself over the edge and started to unload. It was half-decision and half-physics that I slid out of his throat as I was shooting; Noah liked me to finish in his mouth, but part of it just had to do with the fact that I couldn’t stay buried in his throat anymore.

Then it was over. My legs were trembling—in a good way—and I was starting to soften. Noah blinked his eyes clear; they were electric blue, pupils swollen, lashes heavy with his tears. He tongued my dick, playing with it like he didn’t want to give it up yet. Then I pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed again. Noah scooted forward and pressed his face into the cleft of my thigh. I trailed my fingers along the bumps of his spine, up into his hair, where I scratched lightly before reversing course.

Finally, Noah groaned.

I laughed. But I asked, “You okay?”

He mumbled something.

“What?”

Pulling back, Noah looked up at me. Eyebrows drawn together. Nose scrunched up. “You made me come!”

I laughed again. “You liked that, huh?”

“I wasn’t supposed to come!”

“Poor baby.”

He got to his feet. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.”

As he turned to the bathroom, I grabbed his wrist. Reeled him in. Kissed him.

The taste of my load was still in his mouth. I remembered how surprised I’d been, the first time I’d tasted myself on someone else.

The eyebrows went down. The nose wasn’t quite so scrunched.

“You can borrow my Presidents’ Day trunks,” I told him. “They’ve got Abraham Lincoln.”

That made him grin, but it was gone again in that mock-severity. “Good God, Howard Cartwright,” he said, smoothing a hand over my buzzed hair. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

20

“Ready or not,” Noah said from the window. “Here they come.”

I took one last look around the house. I straightened my jacket. Ran my hands over my thighs.

And then the door opened, and the sleigh bells Noah had hung there jingled, and voices burbled as people came in: an elderly couple, followed by a middle-aged couple who had to be related somehow. They smiled at us, turned to follow the runner into the living room, and kept moving.

“What a beautiful tree,” one of the women said.

“And there we go,” Noah said, stepping over to me. He smoothed a hand down the front of my shirt. “It’s going to be great.”

He was dressed conservatively, for Noah. Only the faintest hint of makeup. No glitter. The earring reduced to a simple gold stud. He was wearing the birthstone necklace I’d given him along with a chunky, oversized sweater, and instead of leggings, he had on wide-legged trousers and a different pair of suede boots. He stretched up on tiptoe to kiss me, and then he gave me a nudge and laughed. “Go,” he said. “I know you’re dying to check on everything again. I'll be here.”

So, I headed deeper into the house. Just to be sure.

The four early arrivals were still in the living room, and the older man was pointing out some of the woodworking to the younger man, following it with one finger as he talked. The women were looking at one of the throw pillows Noah had selected, but mostly they seemed to be enjoying chatting. I followed the runner past the bathroom—we’d strung some garland across the door to rope it off, which was what the organizers of the house tour recommended—and reached the kitchen.