23
An Analysis of Pet Names
Jude
I stare at my phone during a break in rehearsal, like I can will a reply from TJ through sheer mind power.
Unfortunately, the trick doesn’t work, and it’s been three hours. He hasn’t responded to the text I sent this afternoon. Maybe I should have been more . . . definitive. More demonstrative?
But I’m not keen on relationships, and I’ve no fucking clue what’s next, so I figured a sexy, Thanks for last night, studwas a good jumping-off point.
Into what, though?
Into more epic, mind-bending, knee-weakening sex?
That was so much more than sex, you daft idiot.
“All right, everyone ready to tackle scenes five and six?” the director calls out, and I tear my gaze away from my phone, powering it off as I return to the studio. This is where my focus should be.
Not on my roommate.
I give robots and scientists my all for the next few hours, loving every second of rehearsal.
When seven rolls around, my phone takes pity on me. Right as I leave the rehearsal studio and hit the pavement, a message flashes across my screen.
TJ:Hey . . . any chance you’d want to get a beer at The Duck’s Nipple? We never made it to that place, and I figure we should.
That’s oddly . . . unspecific. Is this a post-sex discussion? A post-sex date? Beer with the roomie? I can’t tell, but saying we never made it to that place sounds like he’s ending us before we start.
But we can’t really start anything. And what would we start anyway? More sex? That feels insanely risky because last night was already so much more than sex.
Except, risks are in my nature. My job is the definition of risk. I want another night with him. And then more after that.
Call me greedy.
I write back immediately, and we make plans to meet in thirty minutes.
Twenty-nine minutes later, I turn off Rob Lowe and walk into the bar, nerves racing in my chest. Telling myself I’m in a play where I’m a fighter pilot—the epitome of cool.
Settle down, nerves. Just tell the man you want more.
I find TJ at a booth. He catches my attention with a quick wave. I stride over to him. Do we hug? Kiss? Shake hands?
But TJ answers that for me when he slides out of the booth, stands, and yanks me in for a hug. It’s not dude style. It’s definitely I-know-what-you-look-like-nakedstyle, and his aftershave enhances it.
That potent woodsy scent, chased with a hint of soap, smells like a secret he’s wearing just for me. I dip my nose, drag in a whiff of him, and I’m instantly aroused.
That’s not surprising since the scent has turned me on since I first smelled it.
But I’m also feeling . . . a little floaty—a little warm. Like I want to get close to him. Snuggle up against him, run my fingers through his hair, kiss him at the bar like he’s mine.
“Mmm,” he murmurs.
Yes, he did this on purpose, slapping on that aftershave.
And I’m caught up in him. I also now know what tonight is—a date.
But when he takes a seat and I sit across from him, he looks like he’s got something on his mind. Something big. “What’s going on?”
TJ doesn’t answer at first. Because, of course, he doesn’t. He just seems to weigh the question, stroking his beard, sighing heavily, but maybe happily too?
“So, this is kind of crazy,” he begins, and holy fuck.
Is he going to ask me to keep this up? Screw the risks. I’m all in. “Yes. Just yes.”
He laughs. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“Right, sorry.”
“So, the thing is,” he says, and I wince. This is bad news. “I just got a promotion.”
“Oh, that’s great. Congratulations,” I say, still trying to figure out what’s happening on this maybe-date.
His gaze levels mine, and before he speaks, I see the truth in his eyes. I won’t like what he’s going to say. “It’s in New York, Jude. They’re sending me back to New York. Even if I had a choice, and I don’t, they decided to freelance my beat here. It’s both a great opportunity and the only opportunity.”
Wow. That’s a twist I didn’t see coming. And frankly, I don’t care for it.
“I return to New York on Friday,” he continues, his tone heavy, then business-like as he explains that 24News will cover the lease.
But my head pounds.
My ears ring.
TJ is leaving.
I knew he’d go eventually, but I didn’t think too hard about what that might feel like. Now, the idea consumes me. And it’s like a bowling ball, dropping in my gut.
I desperately want him to stay. My chest actually aches at the prospect of opening the door to the flat and seeing . . . some random person.
That seems horribly wrong.
“Would you stay and write your novel?” I ask, a note of wild hope in my voice.
But the question lands like a thud on the table. He doesn’t even have to answer me.
I know what he’s going to say.
He can’t stay to write a book. We aren’t rich. We live hand-to-mouth. He’s not independently wealthy. He’s young and scrappy like me. He lives paycheck to paycheck.
TJ shakes his head. “I can’t, Jude,” he says, then he gets up, comes around to my side, slides an arm around my shoulder.
He buries his face in my neck, the prickle of his beard chasing the ache in my chest away, soothing it until my bones start to hum.
He kisses my jawline, the corner of my lips, my cheek. His kisses are a little sad, a lot poignant. “But what if we make the most of the next four days?”
On Wednesday night, making the most of it looks like this.
I’m kneeling on the floor of the living room, indulging in my favorite treat.
TJ’s cock.
We’re setting records. Since Monday night, it’s been nonstop. Plenty of sex, lots of blow jobs, a handful of hand jobs, and some dick-to-dick action, when I learn something new about myself—that becomes my new guilty pleasure, and I don’t even know why, it just works spectacularly well with TJ, and I tell him as much when we’re naked and grinding together.
We’ve done other things too. A few beers in Chelsea, a music club in Leicester Square to see a Brit-pop band TJ wouldn’t stop telling me about, then an at-home reading of the best lines from The Importance of Being Earnest before we shagged last night.
And now this. Blowing TJ is the sexual equivalent of unlocking the man who takes so long to share anything. It’s the antithesis of all the secrets he keeps. When I have him in my mouth, he is helpless, and he is vocal.
With his legs spread and his head thrown back, he ropes his hands through my hair. “Your mouth, Jude. Fuuuuck. Love your mouth. So fucking much.”
His praise inspires me to take him deeper, suck him harder. I swirl my tongue up and down his length, having a party with his dick.
But right when I have him pulsing in my throat, I relent, letting him fall out of my mouth.
I slide my hands up the coarse hair on his thighs, and he whimpers. “C’mon,” he says, gripping himself, offering his dick to me again. “It’s so fucking good.”
I lick the tip, teasing him, playing with the head, lapping up all those drops of arousal.
“Take me deeper, baby,” he pleads.
That’s what I wanted. I’ve never been one for pet names, but the way he says baby drives me wild. It’s so unlike him. It’s such a surprise. I don’t even think he’s aware he says it in the throes of passion.
He never says it outside of the bedroom.
But when we’re naked, when he’s undone, he doesn’t think. All the time he usually takes before he speaks vanishes. In bed, he babbles and grunts. He whispers and begs.
I savor all the things he says as I draw him back into my mouth, lavishing attention on his thick, hard shaft. Things like . . .
You.
You’re incredible.
Want you so much.
Want this.
Want us.
Those last two words send my mind to dangerous shores. To impossible futures. They remind me cruelly and beautifully that making the most of these four days isn’t only about sex.
I close my eyes, suck him deep, and revel in the taste of him. I like the pet names because I like him so fucking much.
So much that it feels like falling.
So much that I shove my hand into my boxer briefs, stroke my aching cock, and wish I could have him and us for longer. A lot longer.
“Jude, fuck, baby. That’s so hot. So fucking hot, we need to stop.”
Letting go, I pout. “Why do we need to stop?”
“Get up here.” He pats the couch, stretches out on his side, then tells me to fuck his face.
Well, what the gentleman wants . . .
A minute later, we’re tangled up together, my face between his thighs, his between mine.
We are loud and messy. Slurps and sucks fill the air and mix with his playlist of Brit-pop sex tunes that make me even hotter for him.
Make me hot and bothered and thrilled to have him in my life.
In my head.
And, as we go to town on each other’s bodies, I’m pretty sure he’s in my heart too.
But soon, he’ll be gone for good.
All I can do is enjoy every second of these last few wonderful nights.
Pleasure cascades down my spine, coils in my belly. My legs shake, and I let him fall from my mouth, grunting out, “Coming . . .”
I’m seeing stars, trembling all over, and I want to give TJ the same thing. I’m right back on his dick before the aftershocks have finished.
I’m on it, loving it, sucking, and wishing this could happen next week, next month, maybe even next year.
But he’ll be gone in less than two days.
Some stories just play out that way.