It's been like this after a rough week at work more often than not lately. We never discuss it, but inevitably one of us will end up in the other's car to go home from work – to his place or mine, it doesn't really matter – heated glances passed back and forth at every stop light. At home, we barely make it in the door before we're touching like we'll die if we go another second apart, pressed up against the nearest flat surface, kissing hard enough to bruise. We tug at each other's clothes, tongues entwined, hard cocks pressed together through too much clothing. Gasps and moans as we undress each other, as fast as possible but never fast enough. Fine motor coordination fails in the blur of heat and flesh and need. Free from the confines of our clothing, we drag each other towards the bedroom. It's no easy feat while maintaining as much flesh on flesh as possible, as if my touches can drown out the horrors he's seen this week, and his the misery I've seen. Kissing as if we could draw out each other's pain. Then bed and condoms and lube and whimpers and moans and flesh and hands and tongues and he's coming and I'm coming and everything is white…
After, a half-hearted attempt to clean ourselves up before we roll over and pretend to sleep, backs to each other. I don't sleep, not at first, and I know he doesn't either, but it goes unmentioned. Better to stare at the wall and not speak and try not to think.