I asked him to stay the night.
"When the cat's away, Harold?" He teased. He was behind me as I stirred the pot of pasta on the stove, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, held me tight against him. I could feel him grow hard against me. I smiled into the steam and sighed.
"Indeed," I said. "Shall we play, then?"
I'd invited him over for cocktails and dinner, and I'd assumed it would lead to other activities. It wasn't often we had a whole house to ourselves. Of course there were hotels and apartments at our disposal, but there was something different about having a whole house, a stocked kitchen, ample supplies of wine, and Ella Fitzgerald playing on the stereo.
He kissed my neck as he pressed into me. It was so hot near the stove. I felt meek, stirring my pots, an apron tied around me, his mouth on my neck. I told him as much; I said, "You make me feel so tame, John. So stayed and kept." He licked my earlobe.
"Have you ever been wild, though, Harold?" He always called me by my full name, never 'Harry' like Samantha called me. I loved the way my name came from between his lips, his voice low, husky, audible only to me.
"You make a valid point," I said. "I suppose my version of being wild is different from most, although I must say when you hold me like that, it is enough to make me feel fairly savage, which might not be such a great thing if you want your pasta cooked al dente, and your fra diavolo cooked just right."
"Pasta for the devil, eh?" He let go of my waist, and as though reading my mind, he picked up the bottle of wine I'd chosen for the occasion and set to opening it. "Am I your devil, Harold?" He asked as he pulled the cork smoothly from the bottle.
"Not at all," I said. "But I know you enjoy your food spicy, and I am happy to oblige."
He sniffed at the bottle and I raised an eyebrow. My tall companion knew about as much about wine as I did about Samantha's nail polish. "I love it when you cook Italian," he said and poured the wine into glasses. I've always loved that noise, the sound of a good wine being decanted into a good glass. I closed my eyes to enjoy it and thought, And I just love you, John. But it was not something I could say. Not yet.
We sat at the dining room table, candles lit, and I served him a hot plate of homemade food, glass after glass of decadent wine, hunks of thick, Italian bread with oil and cheese and red pepper flakes. Had he allowed it, I would have fed him, bite by bite, with my own hand. As it was, it delighted me to watch him eat, to admire his jaw as it masticated each bite of my cooking. Watching him sop up his sauce with a piece of bread, I grew hard, right there at the table. I could feel myself dripping with want in my pants.
"An excellent meal, as usual," he said. He wiped his face with the cloth napkin and pushed back from the table to finish what was left of his wine. I wanted to taste his mouth. I wanted to luxuriate in all of the flavors of shrimp, lobster, spicy red sauce, butter and wine that I knew lingered over his tongue.
"Let's go to bed," I said lustily, almost begging.
"Or I could take you right here, on your dining room table," he said and rose from his seat. He approached me with a wicked grin. The proposition had merit, but I wanted to feel his body entirely naked against mine on my expensive sheets. I wanted to hold him for the entire night, to wake in his arms and make love again in the dawn light.
"Please, John, take me to bed." He shook his head at my request. I stood to meet him, and we embraced. He kissed me as I desired, his firm mouth and tongue were relentless and savory. I tried again. "I want to go to bed."
He liked to please me, and he quite often acquiesced, but he had his limits. He cared for me in his own way, and there was a part of me that did not want to admit his way would never be enough to match the adoration I felt for him.
No. He would not take me to bed.
He pushed me up against the wall of the dining room. I could feel the chair rail against my backside. He undid my belt and trousers, and even in my disappointment at him not taking me to bed, I sprang forth, rock hard and eager when he pushed down my pants and boxers. He allowed me to do the same to him, and I found him in much the same condition, hard and hot. He unbuttoned my shirt and I his, and we pressed against one another's flesh with the urgency of teenagers. Our hands stroked the flesh of our backs and torsos as we pushed our members together between our bellies. "John. Oh, John," I whispered as he kissed and bit my neck. I wanted to lower myself to my knees, to take him in my mouth. It was something he rarely allowed me to do, but something that I loved because it made me feel so close to him. I started to slide down.
"No," he murmured and caught me by my shoulders, held me fast against the wall. One of his hands came down from my shoulder to clutch our manhoods in his fist. He squeezed them together and we both looked down and moaned when we saw the drops of excitement shimmer on their tips. Whatever I had wanted before evaporated into the ether as he stroked us together in his velvet hand. He pushed my hand away when I tried to take a turn, tried to touch him. "Let me," he said and I was helpless to do otherwise. I contented myself to wrap my arm around him, grab and knead his ass as we pumped against one another. I could tell by his breath he was getting close. He used the ridge of my head to stimulate the soft, sensitive spot underneath his, and kissed me deeply. He came with a quiet grunt, his seed spilling onto me in a series of hot gushes. He used his own semen to lubricate me, and continued until I cried out against his lips and came for him, in his hand.
We showered together and I asked him to stay the night. "Samantha won't be home for days," I offered.
"I can't," he said. He didn't offer any other details and I couldn't avoid my frustration.
"Where are you off to?" I asked, trying not to sound as peevish as I truly felt.
"I have to meet Carter," he replied. He looked right into my eyes as he told me. We had sworn to be truthful, even when it hurt, as it did then.
"I see," I said. "And will she feed you too?"
"Harold," he began. "Please understand."
"Oh, I think I understand just perfectly. Do you stay with her? When she asks you, do you stay the night with her, John?"
"It's a little more complicated than that, and you know it."
"Yes. Yes I do know it." I left the shower and wrapped myself in a robe. He finished rinsing the soap off of his body and followed me out of the shower. He toweled off and started to dress, leaving the wet towel on the floor. "The least you can do is pick up your wet towel from the bathroom floor, John," I snapped, not caring that I sounded beyond peevish. He picked up the towel, folded it and put it on the towel bar. He gave me an inquisitive look and put his hands out, palms up in front of him as though wondering if this paltry gesture had satisfied me.
"Thank you for dinner. It was delicious," he said. He came to me and kissed my cheeks and then my lips. I could still taste the garlic of my sauce on his breath. It made me hungry for more of him than he would give me. I wrapped my arms around him, clutched at him.
"Please stay," I asked again.
"Next time, Harold."
"It's always 'next time' with you, John. Maybe I'm done with this crude charade. Maybe there won't be a next time."
"There's always next time," he whispered in my ear and kissed my forehead. Then he finished dressing in silence and left.
I had asked him to stay the night, and he had left. Again.
