Theo

Caleb got shitty cell reception in Stormville, but we still texted often. And when I got a text from him at two in the morning and it became clear he had a lot of trouble sleeping, I started calling him late, and we’d talk, me wandering around my apartment because I couldn’t sit still, him chasing better reception. Once, when I heard him swear, I asked where he was, and he said he was standing in the pumpkin patch and he’d stepped on the rake.

“You have a pumpkin patch? That’s so…well, either so Cinderella or so haunted hayride.”

“They won’t be ready until the fall. And I’m definitely more haunted hayride than Cinderella.”

“I love Halloween. Or, I used to. When I was little, I’d dress up every year. Started planning my costume forever in advance. Well, it was probably just like a week in advance, but you know, time and kids and all. And it was always cold, so whatever I dressed up as it was kinda pointless because I had to wear a coat over it, but I always forgot about that until it was the time to go. Or I told myself that maybe this year it wouldn’t be so cold.”

“Halloween hope springs eternal, eh?”

“Yeah. And Ohio weather winters early.”

“You grew up in Ohio?”

“Yup. Little nothing town about an hour south of Cleveland. Eastville.”

“That’s where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is, right—Cleveland?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s the only interesting thing in Ohio. Well, I thought so as a kid, anyway. Haven’t really been back since. I don’t even like when we play shows there.”

I had lived for the day I could get out of Eastville. Put as much distance as I could between me and the town that had felt like a straitjacket my whole life. The kids at school who had thought I was strange even when I was still trying to fit in. Who called me “Theodork” because I was awkward and “Theodora” because they thought I looked so feminine.

No, I’d given up on making friends in high school. It had been easier to just throw myself into music, the one thing I enjoyed.

I hadn’t wanted to go to college and become a doctor, like my parents had expected, but I’d jumped at the chance to leave. I never told them that I only applied to schools in New York because it was where I wanted to do music.

As it turned out, a fight with my parents over leaving school had been the catalyst for everything that came after, with Riven.

It was the summer before my senior year, and I’d called them to say that I wasn’t going back to school, and that I was staying in New York City. They were disgusted with me. My mother was cold and fretful, but beneath it was the clear message that I’d failed at the one thing she wanted of me: to do something useful with myself. To make her look good. My father raged. What the hell did I think I was going to do now? How did I think I’d survive without a college education? What kind of life could I possibly make for myself when I had no skills, no training, and nothing to offer?

I hung up the phone vibrating with shame and fury and the need to push it out of me somehow—wishing I were someone who got into fights because I just wanted to slam into something.

Instead, I took my guitar, went to the open mic night at Sushi Bar, like I had nearly every Thursday night for the last two months. I got up on the rickety stage, tacky with spilled beer and soda, and I twisted my song into something violent. I pushed it out of me and into the drunk, distracted audience. I made my song into a fist, and I punched the only way I knew how.

I’d just elbowed up to the bar, having decided that I would like to get epically drunk, when Ethan approached me. I recognized him from other open mic nights. He was handsome and when he watched people play, he always looked like he knew a secret. Like he was hearing something that the rest of the audience couldn’t.

“Did you write that song?” he asked me, with no preamble. When I nodded, he led me to a table in the corner and made me a proposition.

The rest, as they say, was history.

I shuddered. I heard the snick of Caleb’s lighter and his long exhale and took the opportunity to change the subject. I didn’t want to think about Riven any more than I wanted to think about high school. “Hey, you still in the pumpkin patch, Cinderella?”

“Nope, moved to the porch. It’s nice out tonight. Clear. You can see all the stars. Saw deer earlier.”

It was so comfortable, talking to him. Whether it was about music, or real-life shit, or just narrating what we were looking at, I just wanted to hear everything he had to say.

“I want to hear about your parents next time,” Caleb said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how freaky you got about Ohio. Bookmark that.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“Night, Theo.” Caleb’s sign-off was a rumble of smoke and sound that I felt in my stomach and down to my toes. His voice in my ear in the middle of the night, me high in my apartment as the city glittered beneath me, him on his porch with the scent of dirt and trees—it was intimate, and I held on to it as I murmured my own good night and curled up in bed.

---

A few days later, I got a text from Caleb saying he would be in the city that evening to see a show a friend of his was playing.

That an invitation? I wrote back.

Do you know their stuff?

Lion’s Share was a local NYC band I’d always known of but never followed. They played deep, folky blues, and they’d been around long enough that they had a loyal following, especially in the city. I wasn’t sure I could hum a single song, but I respected the hell out of any band that had been together that long and was still making it happen.

Not really, but i know of them and i’d like to hear…if you don’t want me to thats cool tho—they’re yr friends so yr call.

Happy for you to come, Theo, just not sure it’s really your scene.

Well that was vague and unhelpful.

Uh, that was vague & unhelpful

Sorry. Yeah, come with. Just keep a low profile ok? Don’t want to pull focus from the show.

Shit. That made sense.

Sorry, i didn’t think abt that :\ i don’t wanna fuck things up for them

It was a testament to how comfortable I’d felt with Caleb, since keeping a low profile was something I spent most of the time I wasn’t onstage doing.

How bout you wear a hat and we just stay in the back, huh?

I sent back a grinning emoji and was on my way to go shower when his text came through.

And not that raggedy black one—doesn’t actually do shit to hide your damn pretty face.

I grinned for real at that, and snapped a picture of myself to send back in answer.

---

The Firefly Club was at 133rd and Lenox, and the sign outside informed me that Billie Holiday had played here. I pulled my hat down lower over my eyes as I waited for Caleb in the moonlight, but suddenly felt pretty sure that being recognized wasn’t going to be a problem. In fact, the bigger problem seemed to be that I was embarrassingly underdressed. I’d thrown on threadbare jeans and a worn white V-neck T-shirt, shoved my feet into black ankle boots, and jammed the wide-brimmed hat over my still-damp hair on my way out the door, expecting a typical dark, crowded bar where the more nondescript my clothes were, the better I’d blend in.

I felt like an idiot as I leaned on the corner next to the club and watched a steady parade of sharply dressed people stream in. The audience was mostly black, and mostly a bit older—forties and fifties, with some younger folks and much older mixed in. I messed with my phone, nervously, wondering if I should try and find a store to buy a different shirt, but Caleb came up before I could google any.

His smile made me forget about everything, momentarily, as did his warm hand on my shoulder.

“Okay?” he asked, and I leaned in, wanting to smell him.

“I’m seriously underdressed,” I said. “I feel like a dork.”

Caleb was also wearing jeans, but his were nice, dark denim, cuffed neatly above worn brown wingtips. His brown- and blue-checked shirt was tucked in, giving me a very welcome view of his incredible ass, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A tight-fitting brown and gray vest hugged his torso and drew my eyes to the bulge of his biceps and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. I could just see the top of his tattoo at his unbuttoned collar.

“Damn,” I murmured. “You look good as hell.”

He ducked his head and muttered his thanks.

“You’re fine,” he said. “Really. The hat…ya know, dresses it up.” He tapped the brim of my hat.

“Should I tuck in my…?” I tried to tuck in my T-shirt, but my jeans hung too low on my hips.

He snorted. “No, just stop messing with yourself. I swear, you’re the fidgetiest damn thing I’ve seen since rehab.” He squeezed the back of my neck and I felt myself melt under his touch.

“Fuck,” he muttered, leaning close. “When your eyes go all sleepy like that I want to—” He shook his head as if to clear it and smoothed his beard aggressively, shooting me a hot look that I’d think was a glare if I didn’t know him.

I pushed my hips toward him and snaked my hand into his back pocket, looking up at him through my lashes to intensify the effect.

“Fuckin’ flirt,” he said, but his eyes were smiling and he didn’t look away.

“Is this a date?” I asked, pitching my voice low and soft. “I want it to be a date.”

Caleb had this face he made that was the expressional equivalent of a beleaguered groan, and it turned me on like nothing else because I knew it meant I was seriously getting to him. I hadn’t pushed the sex thing, though I’d wanted to. I respected the shit out of anyone who’d gotten clean, and it was clear that rushing into anything—well, rushing into anything again—scared Caleb. But…I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like a rejection. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t tried to get a rise out of him, remind him that when he was ready, I was more than willing.

“Depends,” he bit off.

“Oh yeah? On what?”

He leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, but didn’t touch me.

“On whether your idea of a date is that I come back to your place after this show and fuck the ever-loving hell out of your flirtatious ass.”

A sound escaped me that was half gasp and half mewl, and I let my eyes flutter shut, grabbing for whatever parts of him I could reach.

“That a yes?” he growled.

“Uh-huh.” I pulled his hips into mine so he could see how hard I was just at his words. Just thinking about what he would do to me. He hissed and drew back, breathing steadily.

“Kiss me?” I breathed. “Just once.”

Caleb’s eyes burned. Jesus, he was the most intense person I’d ever met. And I’d met some intense motherfuckers. His hand drifted up to cup my cheek, and he pressed his thumb against my mouth. Then he deliberately shook his head no, and I actually felt my eyes go misty from the intensity of my disappointment. From how badly I wanted to feel his mouth on mine. How desperately awful the distance he’d put between us felt.

I blinked the tears away quickly, and Caleb offered his hand instead of his mouth, nodding toward the door.

Inside, it was like stepping sixty years back in time. The bar at the far side of the room gleamed in the dim yellow light, its dark wood surface pocked with time but polished to a shine, ornately carved wood framing mirrors flecked with desilvered spots continuing up to the ceiling behind the bartender, who was a tall, impeccably suited black woman in her fifties, with a shaved head, tortoiseshell glasses, and warm greetings for patrons she’d clearly known for years.

On the brick walls hung signed pictures of every jazz and blues great I could think of, and a number I didn’t recognize. The conversation around us was jovial, friends meeting in a place where they felt at home, catching up, talking about Lion’s Share and times they’d seen them in the past. Everything about it felt warm, from the lighting to the mood, and I found myself struck by a sense of loss for something I’d never had.

I’d never had this kind of camaraderie with a group before. The kind of casual rapport that came from seeing the same people at something you shared a passion for over and over for years. Hell, I’d never really had much of a rapport with people, period.

As a performer, I’d never played to a crowd like this. I loved the electric crush of our arena crowds. But it was like we’d missed a step in between. Most bands started small, gained local success, and played progressively bigger gigs. We’d been the lightning strike story of getting plucked from the crowd before we’d ever played many shows, and getting a deal with a major label.

When, just two months after Ethan had introduced me to Ven and Coco and we’d become Riven, Dougal had scooped us up, promising stardom, I’d immediately disregarded it. I’d told the band that we should be careful because he was probably full of shit. They’d gaped at me and I’d realized they knew who Dougal Richter was because he was somebody in the music industry, and I hadn’t known.

Six months later and our first album was recorded; we were on the cover of major music magazines, and we were opening for Oops Icarus at arena shows. Our album went gold, we got our own headlining tour, and I began to be recognized on the streets within a year. Coco had said it felt like magic. Ven fist pumped a lot, saying, “Fuck yeah!” And Ethan burned with a deep satisfaction that he didn’t need to give voice to because it was written all over his face.

And me? I couldn’t deny that it was satisfying—amazing, even, to have people love our music so much. I was so gratified whenever I saw people touched by what we made. And the performances themselves, I loved.

But I felt like I’d waded into calm waters only to be pulled out to sea by a powerful undertow. Choked breathless, unprepared, defenseless, looking around in panic as the shoreline receded farther with each wave.

Caleb said hello to a few people as we walked in, but when we made it to the back of the room, he leaned against the brick and closed his eyes.

“You okay?” I asked, leaning next to him.

“Yup, all good,” he said. “Just a lot of past in this room.”

I slid my hand into his and squeezed, hoping to remind him of the present. He squeezed back, though he didn’t look at me, and we stayed that way, holding hands under cover of dark, until the band began to play.

Lion’s Share were masterful—the kind of musicians who felt the music so deep down in their bones, and had been playing so long, that it was like their instruments were extensions of their bodies. They were comfortable onstage, bantering with the crowd and fulfilling requests.

Their pianist played with his eyes closed and never looked at the audience; the lead singer and acoustic guitarist was smooth and accomplished, fingers and voice running up and down the scale effortlessly; the bassist played with his whole body, shimmying and swaying along with the undercurrent of the music; the drummer was younger than the rest of the band, and he executed complex changes like they were nothing, keeping an eye on everyone else in a way that was familiar from watching Ethan; their upright bassist drifted on- and offstage as he was required, having a drink here, listening from the audience there, and resettling himself behind his instrument with a little smile that said that was where he was happiest.

While their original music was good, I was in awe of their execution of some of the standards, and a few covers that twisted poppy rock into crooning, rumbling blues. When they finished their second set, I had to purposely tamp down my enthusiasm, so I didn’t draw attention to myself by how hard I wanted to cheer for them. Caleb shot me an amused look and motioned me toward backstage.

As I followed Caleb through the crowd, I got a few second glances, of the don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere variety, but mostly people ignored me. A door opened backstage at Caleb’s knock, and the bassist stuck his head out.

“Hey, brother, you made it,” he said, grinning when he saw Caleb. “Thought I saw a coupla white boys in the house.” They embraced, patting each other hard on the back.

“This is my friend, Theo. Dixon Plain,” he said to me. Dixon held out a hand to me and when we shook I could feel the familiar calluses on his fingertips.

“You guys were fantastic,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Really amazing.”

I got a warm smile and a humble tip of the head. “Thank you for that, man. I appreciate you saying so.” Then he shot a mischievous look at Caleb and quirked an eyebrow. “Y’all wanna come in for a bit?” Dixon opened the door and Caleb saluted the band members, who were in various stages of sitting, standing, and removing articles of clothing. A chorus of enthusiastic “Heys” met his appearance.

The lead singer ambled up to the door and shook Caleb’s hand warmly, then clapped him on the back. They talked for a minute, then the singer saw me standing behind him. I started to tell him how much I’d loved the show when his expression changed.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice not entirely friendly. “Keeping company.”

Caleb ran a hand through his hair.

“Walt, this is my friend Theo. Theo, Walter Wendell.” I reached out to shake his hand and he held mine one beat longer than was comfortable, looking me up and down. Then he looked away without saying anything and turned to say something to the drummer. I felt hurt bubble up in my throat but I swallowed it down.

Dixon came back over to us and made meaningful eye contact with Caleb.

“Listen, bro, it’s great to see you, but, uh…” He shot a look back at the rest of the band. “I don’t think you’re gonna want to stick around, feel me?”

Caleb stiffened and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks, Dix. I’ll catch you around, then. Night, y’all,” he called to the room, and turned to leave. I closed the door behind me, not sure if I was embarrassed or angry. Caleb took a quick turn and then we were outside in the alley behind the club.

“So you liked it, huh?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“They were amazing,” I said. “Hated me, though, I guess?”

“Nah, that’s just Walt. He’s old-school, you know, thinks anyone who’s been around less than two decades is a flash in the pan. He was just surprised to see me with you is all. You’re not my usual company.”

“Well, what was that shit just now, then? They took one look at me and told us to get gone?” I knocked my fist against the brick, realizing that what I felt was more humiliation than anger. These were professional, talented musicians, who’d looked at me and seen trash. Sellout trash they had no interest in talking to.

“Naw, man, that wasn’t about you.” He started walking and I followed, tripping as I made to catch up.

“What then?”

“Uh, that was Dix telling me they were about to do some shit that I wouldn’t want to be around. Clean now, ya know?”

I skidded to a stop as Caleb turned the corner.

“Oh. Oh, shit.”

He made a gesture of dismissal and unlocked the passenger side door of his truck for me. I stuck my knee out before he could close it.

“Sorry. I, uh, I kinda pulled a rock star moment and assumed it was about me, huh?”

“Yeah, ya did.” He grinned at me, then knocked my hat off into my lap and ruffled my hair. “Guess I’ll have to fuck the rock star right outta you.”

---

The ride to my apartment was excruciating.

Caleb would put a hand on my thigh, then slide his palm up to cup my dick, then he’d take his hand away, and start talking about whatshisname’s technique on the upright bass. He’d rub over my stomach and brush fingers against the tight buds of my nipples as he leaned to point something out to me through my window. When he put his hand on the back of my neck and started playing with my hair, I moaned. He wouldn’t let me touch him, deflecting every attempt with a playful swat and the insistence that it was unsafe. After a few rebuffs I started doing it on purpose because his swats started to feel like caresses.

About six blocks from my apartment, he laid his hand lightly over my erection, tracing the hard line with teasing fingers until I could feel myself swell inside the fabric. He found my tip and rubbed circles over it until I was leaking into my jeans and moaning, my hips thrusting up against the seatbelt.

“The sounds you make fucking kill me, Theo,” he murmured. “Make me wanna take you apart.”

At that I really did groan, white-knuckling the edge of the seat to stop myself from just grabbing my dick and jerking myself off right in the truck. We hit a stoplight and Caleb grabbed my face, turning it toward him.

“Uh-uh,” he said sternly, palm rough on my cheek. Then he went back to stroking the inside of my thigh.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” I said, eyes glued to his crotch where his erection was making a valiant attempt to bust through his jeans. I reached a hand toward him again, and got swatted again, moaning as his fingers stung my wrist and sent a throb through my groin.

“Like that, huh?” he asked, sounding a little amused.

“Maybe,” I gasped.

In the parking lot of my building, I tried to jump him as soon as he shifted into park, but he slammed me back against the truck door by my forearms and leaned in, licking a slow stripe up my neck, then growling, “Wait,” in my ear. I shivered all over, and tripped after him to the building.

After an embarrassingly rushed greeting to Antony, who called Caleb Mr. Crossword, we were in the elevator. I reached for Caleb, but he pinned me to the wall with a stare like a laser. Then he just watched me, eyes hot, breath shallow, for fourteen floors. I was trembling from his attention, licking dry lips and trying not to melt into a puddle of lust and embarrassment on the floor of my own elevator. I was so wrapped up in Caleb that the ding of my floor made me jump.

As I fumbled with the lock, Caleb came up close behind me and pressed his hard cock to my ass.

“You feel that?”

I nodded so fast I nearly dropped the keys, and Caleb ran his lips over my neck with maddening gentleness, biting at my nape as the door finally swung inward.

He kicked the door shut behind us and moved me into to the bedroom with a palm on my chest like he was a stalking animal, eyes never leaving mine.

At the bed, he stripped my shirt off, then yanked my jeans down without even unzipping them. I kicked my boots and jeans off as he slowly unbuttoned his vest. Every one of his movements was a combination of controlled and predatory and it lit me up like Times Square at New Year’s.

As he removed his clothes, I ran greedy eyes over him. He was broad, with thick arms and legs, a round ass I was quickly becoming obsessed with, and a chest I wanted to lick and bite and fall asleep with my cheek on. I’d never been much for beards, but Caleb’s just set off the clean lines of his face and hair perfectly, and somehow it made his nakedness more dramatic.

We stood, naked and staring at each other, breathing heavily, eyes consuming each other, for the space of a few breaths. Then I reached out a shaky hand and pressed my palm to Caleb’s stomach, just needing to feel his skin. The second I made contact, he tumbled me back onto the bed, mouth everywhere, nipping at my neck, sucking on my nipples, tongue in my belly button, biting at the insides of my thighs, letting my dick slap against his cheek. I could feel the rough tickle of his beard on the tender skin there.

Then Caleb leaned in and swallowed my erection to the root, pulling a harsh cry out of me. The sudden heat and suction made me lose my mind and I tried to thrust, but his weight kept my hips on the bed.

“Oh, god,” I whimpered, and he mmmed around me, the vibrations setting off every nerve ending they touched. He pulled off me slowly, and I shuddered at the drag of my cock against his mouth, then he was in my face, lips moist and full. He kissed me like a whirlwind and I could taste my arousal on his tongue. I pressed up against him, and grabbed his meaty ass, squeezing it and then rubbing over his hole until he bucked against me.

“What do you want?” he said against my lips, and an erotic buffet paraded across my mind, leaving me shaking and gape-mouthed.

“Nngh,” I said, intelligently, and Caleb smirked.

He flipped me over effortlessly, and spread me out on the bed. I heard him grab a condom and the lube from the bedside table but I felt like I was in a fog of arousal too thick to process anything but the touch of his hands and the scent of his skin.

Rough hands spread my legs apart, and Caleb raked the skin of my inner thighs with his fingertips. I cried out, and squirmed, trying to press my legs together and failing. He kissed each thigh and mumbled something against my skin. His mouth moved to the crease where my thigh met my ass, and he bit down gently. Then he gave my ass a swat, like he’d done to my wrist in the car. The sound echoed in the empty apartment and I nearly came off the bed.

The heat of the slap coalesced into a tingle and I moaned, lifting my hips. Caleb chuckled and took my ass in his hands.

“This ass is mine tonight,” he said, voice low and rumbling. I nodded, my cheek smashed into the sheet, hair everywhere. “Tell me it’s true.”

“It’s true, yes, it’s yours,” I managed.

“What’s mine, Theo?”

“My a-ass.”

“Mmm, that’s right.” He bit my right cheek. “It is. It is mine.”

He licked a stripe over my hole, up to the small of my back, and I squeaked, clawing at the sheets. I felt helpless, splayed open before him, but every molecule in my body craved it. His attention, his affection, the simple animal heat of him.

He palmed my ass again, like he was taking stock of what was his, and gave me a few slaps, my ass bouncing in the wake of each. There was something filthy and humiliating about letting him do this, but though my face was on fire, I wanted it to go on forever.

After a few minutes, I buried my face deeper into the sheets, moaning, and tried to push up on my knees, but it was too much, and I only managed to half look back over my shoulder at Caleb. He looked like a god, face flushed, eyes bright, chest heaving, and muscles tight with the strain of control. He palmed his erection, snugging the condom to his root. I made a desperate sound at the sight, and he leaned his forehead between my shoulder blades, pressing me back to the bed.

“Fuck, I wanna take you apart,” he groaned.

“Do it. I want it. ’M ready.”

He knelt and ran a gentle hand over my hair, then pulled my hips onto his thighs. I could feel the tip of his cock teasing my entrance, and I nodded into the covers, in case he was waiting. Caleb surged forward, and sank into me in one powerful thrust, seating himself deep before my body had a chance to react and keep him out.

I cried out, scrabbling at the covers, but he caught my hands in his and stilled us both. He felt impossibly large inside me, and I sucked in deep breaths, trying to adjust to the intrusion. Caleb stroked up and down my spine, and in the drop of sweat that hit my back, I could feel the effort it took him to keep still.

After a minute, I felt myself relax, muscles easing and breath coming easier. At the shift of my body, he moaned and squeezed my shoulder. I pressed back to him, bouncing my ass a little on his cock. He struck like lightning. In a heartbeat, I was spread wide again, face in the sheets, arms outflung, as Caleb pounded into me in long, deep strokes. It felt like he was running a race with himself: Could he make me come before he lost control?

We moved together, finally, Caleb’s hands at my hips and mine tangled in the sheets, trying to get enough traction to thrust back against him. Each long stroke made me lose my mind, my body hot and out of control. He knelt lower, plowing into me, and started hitting my prostate with every thrust. I didn’t even try to keep from crying out because every time I did, it just seemed to make Caleb hotter.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, and I felt his fingers trace my hole around his erection. Finally, I couldn’t take any more. My ass was pulsing with heat and friction, my erection was throbbing so hard it was like its own heartbeat, and I felt light-headed with arousal, but I was too fucked out to hold myself up enough to reach my dick.

“Caleb, please. Please.” I started saying it with every thrust—Please—begging for him—Please—for his touch.

“You need me, baby?” he asked, voice low and wicked as he pounded into me.

I let out an inarticulate cry and made a grab for his hand, writhing beneath the force of his thrusts.

“Mmmm,” he said. He hitched my hips up and slid nearly all the way out of me. When his hot hand curled around my pulsing dick, I nearly screamed, so sensitized that his light touch felt like a stroke. “Fuck, yes, you’re so hot. Squirming while you take me.” He squeezed my cock a little harder and my hips went wild, trying to thrust forward to get more of his hand, trying to press backward to get more of his dick, and I moaned in frustration as I was caught between them.

Caleb scraped my sweaty hair back and leaned over me, sucking at the skin of my neck until I cried out.

“I want you to come for me.” His voice in my ear was a menace and a promise, and I fucking loved it. I groaned my response, and Caleb started fucking me again, this time stripping my dick to the rhythm of his deep thrusts.

I lost it in seconds, my orgasm blasting through me and taking me apart. My dick spewed over Caleb’s fist, and my ass spasmed so hard around his cock that he felt twice the size. Dark pleasure unspooled deep inside me and rocked through me, leaving me wrung out and shaking as the waves subsided. Caleb was groaning, thrusting wildly above me, and as he came he thrust so hard it slid me up the bed, leaving us in a sweaty, come-streaked tangle. He moaned brokenly into my neck and pulsed his hips a few more times, as the last of his peak shuddered through him.

I could feel him inside me, tender flesh spitted on his length like he’d claimed the territory and would always be there. I bit down on what I thought was his wrist because I needed something—anything—to hold onto, and let myself go limp and trembling against him.

We muttered incoherencies into each other’s skin, and I meant to thank him, for letting me come to the show tonight, for giving me the music and then taking me out of myself, but I didn’t have the words.