Chapter 15

"You're not staying, are you?" I asked Petter, after he declined another whiskey and asked for coffee instead.

"I can stay a while, but not the night. I'm sorry. Per's been sort of clingy since his accident. I don't want him to get up in the morning and I'm not there."

"It's okay." I made us both coffee, and we went to sit on one of the couches in the living room. "Did you always want a family?"

"Yeah, probably more so because I didn't think I would be able to have one. I knew I was gay when I was about twelve or thirteen. When I got older and people I knew were dating and stuff, and talking about possible futures, I didn't see the same thing for me. I couldn't imagine adopting kids, or using a surrogate." He grimaced a little. "I wanted my own. When I met Monica, things sort of fell into place. She had some shit to deal with in her teenage years and she didn't want to get involved with a man right away. All the young guys our age that she knew were only keen to get into her pants, but she wanted to study, set up a future for herself, and then have a couple of kids. She saw me as safe to be with while she did that. It worked for both of us."

"What did she study?"

"She's a nurse. Well, she did all the training including on the job, but when she qualified there wasn't a suitable position open locally. We talked more about kids and she decided it was the right time. She would go back to nursing later. She never did, it though. The Mobsters keep her busy." He grinned. "She patches us all up whenever anything happens—broken noses, knife wounds, whatever. She's even taken a bullet out. She has a whole bunch of equipment. The spare bedroom in our house is like a surgery."

"I'll know where to come if I get shot or anything." I finished my coffee and took his hand in mine. "Has she ever had to fix you up?"

"Only this." He indicated the corner of his left eye, where there was a small crease. "I got cut once. It was a miracle the fucking knife didn't take my eye out. I moved at the last second. She put a couple of stitches in, and it healed fine."

"She sounds amazing."

"Yeah." He paused and grinned. "She knows I'm seeing someone, just not who. She'd probably take one of her scalpels to me if she found out."

We talked for an hour, about all manner of things. We had the same opinion on a lot of subjects. Petter even showed me a photo of his kids that he kept in his wallet. They were both blond and grey-eyed.

"They're good-looking," I said. "They look a lot like you."

He laughed. "Are you saying I'm good-looking?"

"You know you look good. Where's the blond hair come from?" I remembered Monica was brunette.

"I'm blond, or was when I was their age. My hair went darker by the time I hit puberty. Your sister's blonde, isn't she?"

I laughed. "Yes, out of a bottle, though. She's as dark as me."

He stayed another couple of hours, then went home. After he left, I paced around, irritable and annoyed with myself for longing for him so much. We hadn't spent the night together many times, but I'd come to expect it and I hated that he wasn't there.

I poured myself a large Scotch and tried to watch something on TV, but nothing held my interest. I switched it off, and thought about our time together that day; how we'd barely managed to get my apartment door shut before we grabbed each other, desperate to get out of our clothes. My dick filled, as I remembered the taste of his mouth; the feel of his hands on me; his warm skin; his tight heat gripping me. And then I remembered what I'd said to him in the hotel, about how maybe I could try having him fuck me sometime. Could I?

I tried to imagine it—his muscular thighs between mine, and his erection pressing inside me. My dick throbbed. I got up and went to my bedroom. The sheets were tangled and smelled of sex, but I didn't change them—it could wait until tomorrow. I just straightened them, took off my clothes, and slid into the bed.

My heart raced and my hands shook as I reached for the lube. I couldn't quite believe I was going to do this, but I wanted to try. If I didn't, I could never let Petter touch me like that. I coated my fingers and reached down.

It wasn't as difficult as I expected. My finger slid inside and it didn't hurt, but it felt strange. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Petter doing it. His fingers were thicker than mine. He'd probably be kissing me too, his erection rubbing against my leg as he got all worked up thinking about fucking me.

I added a second finger, and grunted at the tightness and slight discomfort. I was clenching up, and I tried to breathe and relax, the same as I told him those first couple of times. It started to feel good. I thrust in as far as I could reach, and stroked my dick with the other hand. In my head, Petter guided himself into me and buried himself balls deep. And then my fucked up head changed things and I was lying face down on a narrow bunk, my head spinning from the drugs, and some unknown guy slamming into me, not caring whether I was ready or not. The vague memory of the horrible burning pain and the thought of what was happening made me feel sick.

I pulled my fingers out and sat up gasping, my erection gone. No. Not yet. I couldn't do it. If I started doing this with Petter and freaked out, I'd feel ridiculous, and he'd probably try to comfort me which would make me feel worse. I shuddered and clenched my fists. I knew he understood, but I still felt like I should give him more. Just not yet.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face and clean my teeth. My stomach churned. I didn't even remember much about what had happened to me, but my imagination wasn't my best friend. I couldn't shake the images of me going through that, as if I were watching from outside. My back was cut up and bleeding, and I didn't know how it got that way. I was bruised, too, around my ribs, as if I'd taken a good kicking. It was late morning by the time Christian got to me. I'd been there for hours. How many guys could have been in me during that time? I hadn't let myself think about that too much before, but now I couldn't stop myself. I swallowed hard to stop myself vomiting, and punched the mirror instead. A spiderweb of cracks appeared across the glass, and when I checked my stinging knuckles, they were bleeding.

I washed and bandaged my hand and got myself another large Scotch. I gulped it down, then refilled the glass. I wouldn't think about this again. It was my own fault for trying to give Petter more when I clearly wasn't ready.

I finished the second drink and went back to bed, wishing I wasn't alone. I really wanted his arms around me right now.

My phone beeped with a text message, and I picked it up, surprised. 'Sorry I had to leave. Wish I could have stayed the night. P.'

I relaxed and grinned. He wasn't here, but at least he was thinking about me; wanting me. Instantly, I felt better. We really had something. The least likely couple of guys to ever get together, and it was becoming something amazing. I tapped out a brief reply. 'Miss you. See you soon. D.'