Where Sea Meets Sky

“I told you I’d make you come,” he says. He slides his pants off and I’m caught between wanting to look him in the eye and at his large erection. It’s hard to focus on one thing. I think I manage to do both without going cross-eyed but in the end the dick wins. He was right about that, too.

“I never doubted it,” I say. I go to sit up, more than ready to lay my lips on him and give him that blow job I promised, but he’s bringing a condom out of his bag and tearing it open. He throws the wrapper and the bag to the ground and then slowly rolls the condom onto himself. For some reason, there’s nothing sexier than watching a guy put on a condom; the sight of a man’s hands on his dick is a pure lust-inducer.

And despite just coming, the lust is pouring back into me again, like a dam unleashed.

The side of his mouth quirks up into that crooked smile. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’m dying to be inside you.”

I have a feeling that “presumptuous” is his middle name.

He puts his hands around my waist and pulls me to him. My legs wrap around him while he starts to guide himself inside. It’s intimate, perhaps more so than I’d like. The lights are on and he stares right into my eyes, and for a moment I want to look away, to break the tension, the intrusion. I’m already exposed and he peers into me like he’s uncovering every last rock. The things I keep hidden deep down. It’s mildly terrifying.

But I don’t look away. Instead, I tighten my hold around him, my calves flexing.

He grips the small of my back while he thrusts in, finding purchase. I haven’t had sex for months, and despite how turned on I am, it hurts for that first moment. I close my eyes and he slows.

“Are you all right?” he asks breathlessly. He reaches up and pushes a strand of hair off my face. His tenderness is jarring.

I quickly nod and smile. I am all right. I’m more than that; I’m flying. He kisses me and I relax into him, allowing him in further until I’m so beautifully full. The pain is gone and the pleasure builds with each controlled movement he makes. There is symmetry in our actions, as if we move as one, as if I’m not precariously perched on the edge of a pool table at some party. We don’t move like strangers.

I hold him tight, he holds me tighter, I pull him in deeper, he pushes in further. He thrusts, I rush to meet him. We give and take until I should be close to coming. I move my hand between us, running my finger over the tip of his shaft before helping myself out.

He grins down at my hand and slowly raises his hooded eyes to meet mine. “I’m not sure if I want to watch or if I want to help.” But after a few sweaty moments of near bliss, he moves my hand out of the way and places his thumb on my clit. His lips go to my neck where he bites and sucks his way to the smooth spot behind my ears. He picks up the pace, thrusting harder, faster, and I can barely hang on.

He whispers, grunts, moans things in my ear. He tells me how good I feel, how bad he wants to come inside me, how much he wants me. He wants more. I want more.

Just when I feel like he’s about to come, his breath hitches, he frowns in deep concentration and control, and I let go. His thumb is magic and we come at the same time. His nails dig into my back, the heels of my feet dig into his. My body rides the wave again, rides him over and over until I’m drowning. I’m sweaty and sated and he steals my breath for a few moments before I come back down.

When I do, I realize we’re embracing each other, our foreheads pressed together as we breathe in unison. A drop of sweat rolls off his face and onto mine and he opens his eyes to look at me. They look soft. Delicate. There’s a wound there, something deep and dark and lost inside of him.

Does he even know it’s there?

Then he wipes at his face and laughs. He’s a mess of running eyeliner and smudged bronzer. Somehow it makes him look even more handsome. It makes me forget that I ever saw him vulnerable.

I wish I had more time with him. I wish I could get to know the real Josh.

But New Zealand is waiting for me. Home.

Eventually we pull apart—hot and sticky. I am absolutely covered in his bronzer, and my hair and makeup are a mess. Halloween is officially over now.

“Where are you staying?” he asks me as he carefully pulls the condom off.

“The Hostelling International on Thurlow,” I say as I jump off the pool table. I quickly get dressed, turning my back to him. Now that the haze of sex has worn off, I’m feeling like a wild animal without cover. Exposed.

When I turn around, he’s watching me, smiling. His pants are on and his wig is crooked, and with half his body bronzer wiped off he looks like a tawny zebra.

“What?” I ask, trying not to feel self-conscious.

“I don’t think we’re done with each other.”

I raise my brow. “Okay . . .”

“What time is your flight?”

“Three in the afternoon.”

“How about I get you a cab home?”

I frown. “I can get my own cab.”

He rubs at the braided goatee on his chin. “How about I take you home. I shave this thing off. We do that,” he gestures to the pool table, “again, in a bed. You stay the night. In the morning, we’ll take it from there.”

I admit, it’s tempting. But slightly irresponsible. “It sounds a bit too risky when I have a thirteen hour flight tomorrow.” I’m thinking it over though and he’s studying me, waiting for me to say yes.

And I do, because I want to. It feels right. He’s right. We aren’t done with each other.