Chapter 8
Austin
After Luke’s meltdown at the bar a few weeks ago, I’ve tried to get to the bottom of what is bothering him, but he’s stonewalled me at every turn. He’s put on a happy face and is now insisting he was in a shitty mood that night and nothing more.
Oliver and I have continued to spend Friday nights together, but the rest of the week, we seem to have an unspoken agreement the other doesn’t exist. There’s never any messaging aside from Friday’s, and on the rare occasion one of us spends the night, Saturday’s consist of a cup of coffee and a quick goodbye…well, sometimes morning sex before the coffee.
We agreed at the start that neither of us wanted anything serious, and this is perfect. So, why has it started to make me feel so restless? Why am I finding myself checking my phone on Tuesday afternoons and feeling disappointed when I don’t have a new message from Oliver? Why am I spending all my free time checking the sales on his website and stalking his social media? He’s gotten good at his social media accounts, too. He posts pictures of himself painting, little teases of his works in progress like the color palate or a corner of the image, and is currently doing a tweet series with the hashtag ArtistLife where he talks about day to day things he gets up to.
On Friday, a particular tweet catches my eye.
Why do fridays feel sooooo long? Waiting for a message from my Guy Friday to come rock my world tonight and give me some inspiration ;) #artistlife
My stomach flutters, and I hit the like button before closing Twitter and pulling up Grindr to send him a message. It occurs to me that maybe we’re at the point where we should exchange phone numbers and stop messaging over Grindr. Except…messaging through Grindr helps keep the distance between us. Even pulling up the app is a good reminder of what this is meant to be and why the emotions dancing in my chest have no place there when it comes to Oliver.
Austin: Using me to gain social media attention? I feel so cheap and tawdry
Oliver: That’s showbiz, baby. Didn’t know you were stalking my social media accounts though ;)
Austin: Stalking is a strong word. I prefer intense research
Oliver: Sure, sure lol. So, you coming over tonight or what, Guy Friday?
Austin: Of course. 7?
Oliver: Sounds good. I’m in the middle of a painting so you may need to buzz more than once in case I have my music on too loud
Austin: Got it. See you tonight
*****
As predicted, I have to buzz twice and then send Oliver a message before he realizes I’m there.
He greets me at his open apartment door, just like the first time I came over, just like he has every time I’ve come over in the past two months, and for some reason, it warms me all over. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s standing in the doorway, covered in streaks of paint, wearing nothing but a lace jock that barely conceal his half hard cock.
I nearly stumble over my feet as I take in the sight of him, my own cock growing hard.
“Come on in. I’m nearly at a point where I can take a break, so you’ll only have to wait a few minutes for my attention,” he assures me with a wink, returning to his canvas as soon as I step inside. A pulsing beat is playing from his laptop, and I can see why he didn’t hear me buzz.
“Is it okay if I watch?”
“Sure, just don’t talk. I need to focus a few more minutes.”
I mime zipping my lips.
As one song bleeds into another, it seems like his painting playlist is almost exactly the same as my “Fuck Songs” playlist. His hand isn’t the only thing that moves as he paints; his entire body does, and it’s completely mesmerizing, like a dance. I’m in awe, watching the way each new stroke of paint on the canvas brings the image more life and depth. Like all of his paintings, it drips passion and sex, but there seems to be something more lurking under the surface as well. Something richer that takes my breath away, even though I can’t say what exactly it is.
“Austin?” Oliver’s voice echoes over the pounding bassline, and I tear my eyes off the incredible painting to look at him. His eyes are bright and full of hunger, his lips parted and damp like I only just missed him licking them, and his chest is heaving. He looks like he’s had all the foreplay he can handle and is desperate for a good hard fuck.
Oliver
Austin is on me in two strides, picking me up and pressing his lips against mine in a flurry that can’t seem to decide if it’s biting or kissing, and neither of us seem to care to push it more one way or the other. I wrap my legs around his waist, my cock trapped against his stomach as his grip around me tightens. The rough feeling of the lace dragging over my erection, tugging at the silver ring through the tip of my cock, makes me shiver and squirm, desperate for more.
“Fuck me,” I murmur into his mouth, giving his bottom lip a hard nip.
Austin tosses me onto the couch and covers me with his body in an instant, one hand running over my body, pinching my nipples and playing with my belly button ring, while the other seems to fish for something in his pocket—if it’s not condoms and lube, I’m going to scream.
I yank his pants open and shove my hand inside to wrap it around his cock. Austin groans against my lips, thrusting his erection into my grasp and producing supplies from his pocket like I’d hoped.
He pushes his pants down his hips just enough, tearing the condom open and rolling it on quickly, followed by the packet of lube being opened and squirted into his hand as well.
“Don’t need prep, just fuck me,” I pant.
“That’s so hot, thinking about you playing with your hole while you’re waiting for me to come over,” he moans as he slicks his cock with the lube in his hand, wiping the excess on his shirt without a care.
“Painting makes me horny,” I explain, a feeling of déjà vu washing over me. I’m sure I told him the same thing the first time we hooked up eight months ago. Everything feels so different now than it was then. Austin isn’t just some random Grindr hookup, no matter how much we keep trying to pretend that’s what this is. No matter how much we compartmentalize this, it feels like it’s getting too big.
Before I can spend any more time contemplating this, Austin’s thick cock splits me open with a burning stretch. I bite down on my lip, digging my fingers into his biceps and gasping.
“Sorry, baby. I thought you were ready,” he apologizes, nuzzling just below my ear and rocking his hips gently to work me open.
“I said I was,” I assure him. “I am.”
When the sharp sting fades into more of an enjoyable pressure, I grab his ass in my hands and encourage him to thrust. Like always, Austin fucks me hard and deep, exactly how I like it, like no one else ever has.
His thick shaft drags against my prostate with every thrust, making my cock weep precum, and my balls ache for release. I stick my hand down the front of my jock and grab my cock, jerking myself in time with Austin’s punishing thrusts, each one seeming to somehow get deeper inside me.
“Austin,” I gasp, squirming beneath him as the pleasure gets to be nearly too much, my eyes fluttering closed. It’s coming, that perfect high, the peak of existence, and Austin always pushes me to a level no one else has ever come near. “Yes, yes, yes,” I chant.
Throwing my head back, I clench my ass around Austin’s cock, making it feel even bigger inside me as I chase that perfect feeling. The light stubble on Austin’s jaw drags against my throat like sandpaper, every sensation amplified times a thousand. I brush my thumb over the jewelry through the head of my cock, and the way it tugs at my slit is more than I can take, finally sending me spiraling into pleasure.
Austin ruts faster and harder into me, fucking the cum out of me as it spills over my hand and all over my jock. Soon, I can feel the pulsing in his cock that matches mine, both of us moaning and gasping our way through the pleasure as we cling to each other.
I wince when his softening cock slips out of me. He stands up and looks like a hot mess, his clothes disheveled but not removed, his lips puffy, and a used condom hanging from his spent cock, and suddenly, I have to draw him.
“Don’t move,” I instruct before he can do anything to change the utterly perfect mess our fucking caused.
“Can I take off the condom at least?” he asks with a laugh as I scramble off the couch, kicking off my underwear and leaving them in a soiled pile on the floor. Let them be ruined, I don’t care; I need to draw Austin right now.
“No,” I call back as I grab my sketchbook and charcoal pencil off my kitchen table and return to the couch.
My eyes dart rapidly between Austin and the paper as the image starts to take shape under the fast blur of my hands. An incredible feeling washes over me, almost as good as the orgasm we shared, as I rush to capture this moment.
When I’m finished, my fingers are black with charcoal, and Austin looks a mix of impatience and curiosity.
“Sorry about that, I’m finished.”
“It’s okay, can I finish cleaning up now?”
“Yes, sorry,” I say again, waving him away and setting down my sketchbook. Paint is my preferred medium, but there was no way I was going to make Austin stand for hours with a used condom on his dick, his pants down around his thighs. I’ll paint this later, but at least now I have something to work from.
He returns and glances at my sketchbook lying by the couch.
“Can I see it?”
“Go ahead. I’m going to paint it later.”
His eyebrows shoot up as he looks at the drawing. “You’re going to paint and sell this?”
“No one will be able to tell it’s you,” I assure him.
“No, I know. It’s…it’s really hot to know such an intimate moment will hang in someone’s home somewhere.”
I nod in agreement and crook my finger at him. “Take off your clothes and sit with me?”
Austin strips without argument and joins me on the couch. I climb onto his lap, putting my hands on his chest and kissing him slowly, no rush now that we’ve both come, just our tongues teasing and playing, our lips moving together in an erotic dance. I map the planes of his body with my fingers, memorizing them so I can paint them later.
When I pull back, I realize I’ve made black smudges all over him with the charcoal on my hands, and that gives me another idea.
“Can I paint you?”
“Of course, I don’t mind if you want to paint the drawing you made.”
“No, I mean, can I paint you?”
Austin laughs, finally getting my meaning. “Sure, why not?”
I slide off his lap and tug him down onto the drop cloth already spread out on my living room floor.
“Hold on, please; I need to find the right colors,” I explain with a wink, grabbing a fresh palate and examining my tubes of color and choosing the ones I want and then picking out a brush.
When I turn around again, Austin has his arms behind his head, waiting patiently, his skin bathed in moonlight and a smile on his face. Kneeling beside him, I dip my brush in the blob of red paint first and then drag it across his stomach.
Austin jerks and giggles, the sound settling in my chest.
“Oh my god, that’s cold, and it tickles,” he complains.
“Shh, you’re a canvas.”
The second stroke doesn’t surprise him as much, but he does giggle again.
“What are you painting?” he asks once I’ve added a few different colors and started to blend them.
“Your soul,” I answer.
“My soul?”
“Yup,” I smirk. “The red is the passion that overflows in you, the orange and yellow are for your warmth and your playful sense of humor,” I explain the colors I’ve added so far.
“And the blue?” he asks as I add a fourth color.
“The blue is your loneliness.”
He quiets, his expression growing serious. “I’m not so lonely anymore.”
“Me either.”
Our eyes meet, and all the unspoken things on the tips of our tongues hang between us in the air until I see panic start to fill Austin’s eyes.
“I think I should probably go.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to. You could stay the night,” I offer, my heart in my throat. I want so much more than to have him stay the night tonight. I want this to be more than a Grindr hookup, and I want us both to acknowledge that. I don’t want him to be my Guy Friday; I want him on Mondays and Wednesdays too. I want him in the middle of the night and on quiet Sunday mornings. I want him on birthdays and holidays and sick days. I want all his days. But as the fear and uncertainty grows in his eyes, I bite my tongue against letting all those wishes spill out.
“Maybe next week.” Something in his tone makes me wonder if there will be a next week at all.
“Sure, next week,” I agree as a sad resignation settles over me.
Austin disappears into the bathroom to wash the paint off and then dresses quickly and leaves with nothing more than a quick kiss on the cheek and vague promises to see me later.
As the door clicks shut behind him, my heart aches at the loss.