"JC? -- Josh. Can I ask you something?"

He looked up from his book and arched an eyebrow so it reached over the top of his dark wire-rim glasses. "Sure," he said. When I bit my lip and hesitated, he put the book down, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. "What. Tell me. Don't stand there looking like you're about to tell me that my dog just died."

It was almost obscene the way his was sitting back in the chair, legs spread, one elbow on the arm of the chair with his chin resting in his palm, with a curious look that could almost be interpreted as pleading, "Come fuck me, now." I would too. Gladly. I'd pull him off that chair and onto the bed, take off his clothes and ease into his ass before he could even say --

"Please?"

"Huh?" I'd been staring at him. Shit.

"Please tell me," he said. He looked like he was about to pick his book back up, resume reading, and ignore the fact that I was standing in front of him.

I inhaled and looked up at the ceiling. "Do you love me?"

"Sure, yeah, I love you." He thought about it for a second longer. "Yeah." He nodded his head and reached for his glasses.

"No," I said. "Not like that though, right?" I could feel the words start to crowd behind my teeth. They wanted out and they were going to come hard. "Not like a friend --" He was about to stand up, but my hand flew into the air about then and he stilled. "-- you love me like music. You want to lay my body out and write symphonies across it. You want to place kisses on my mouth hoping you'll find poetry there, and pluck the words with your tongue. You want me to make you moan -- to moan and finally know what your voice sounds like."

"Chris, I --"

"You want me."

"Chris, I --" he started again. He sighed because maybe I had figured him out.

He had been doing weird things lately. Like just randomly hugging me just because he wanted to. Or like having Lance arrange it so we roomed together. Like leaving his journal lying on his bed, open to a certain page so maybe, just maybe I might get curious and read it.

I tried to remember more of the words he had written, but before I could he stood up quickly and pressed his lips against mine. They were then all over me, all around me, and I knew that what he had written WAS about me, because the words were now gone from my mouth -- he had swallowed them.

Afterwards, I would remember being pushed back onto the bed, but I would not remember how we got there. I would remember how his fingers felt, dragging across my chest, swirling around my nipples, but I would not remember how my shirt got taken off. He was warm above me -- when my tongue slid down his neck and licked across his collarbone, his chest heaved against mine; when his hand stroked between my legs, I growled and bit softly at the notch in the bottom center of his neck -- he flowed across me like water. I would remember being completely overcome by him, but I would not remember how I let go.

He kissed down my stomach, but before taking my penis in his mouth, he knelt above me, one hand held my hips down, the other gently twisted around just underneath the head of my cock. I looked up into his eyes and he smiled, his lips becoming the blossom that I would soon feel around my hardness. My eyes moved down his body and my hands joined them. I settled them on his hips and watched as his penis lengthened with his arousal -- it was soon full and purplish and leaning towards the right. I wanted it inside me.

That thought was suspended though when his mouth came down on me, swallowing me deep, his tongue working new crevasses into the underside of my penis. The suction he created threatened to suck my brains out, and by god, he could suck out anything he wanted as long his mouth kept up its strong, wet, pulsing assault. My whimpering got louder but was replaced with the low grunt of my voice pooling at the base of my vocal chords. I came -- he still sucked and sucked and all of me spilled into his mouth. He pulled away from me and I was still grunting, the tsunami of pleasure still raging over my body. He turned me over, making me dizzy, but I didn't care because his mouth was now at my anus, his tongue transferring my semen from his mouth back into the depths of me. I felt fingers, too -- stretching me, preparing me, already hitting that spot inside me that would make me come again.

He turned me back around and pulled my legs around his waist. He lifted my hips up.

"Stop," I said. His mouth fell open and he looked at me like I had just kicked him in the balls. "Wait, no. I just want to taste you first." He seemed relieved and released the death grip on my hips. I sat up and pushed him backwards -- he resisted a little, but as I bent down and cradled the head of his cock on my lips, he gave in and sank back into the bed. His penis was soft at the tip, like licking ice cream, but further down it was rigid and I could feel the blood flow through the plethora of tender veins that stood up along the shaft. His hands gently held the sides of my head, but every few seconds or so, his fingers would slide through my hair and I knew that he was resisting pulling it.

"Chris," he hissed and sat up. "Oh god, please stop. I need to --" He moaned as his penis fell from my mouth and slid down the side of my chin.

I laid back down and he positioned himself under me again. When his cock slid into me, I felt the resistance -- it burned like thousands of small needles pricking at the soft tissue. But once the head pushed past the stubborn ring of muscle, it was all friction and ecstasy and prostate and oh my god he is fucking me. I couldn't get his name to form in my throat so I pulled him down to me, my mouth finding his skilled tongue, my penis finding life again as it is caught between our stomachs.

He moved in me deliberately, and I knew he heard music in his head -- whatever beat thudded in his brain was the same pace as the one he fucked me with. I there were words too -- they came out of his mouth in a whisper. Warm. Fuck. Chris. Want. They were all one syllable except one -- Amazing. I understood why orgasm, in many languages, begins with the letter 'O', because his mouth was slowly forming the perfect, large vowel as a drop of sweat slid down his nose, as his pace quickened, and the music in his head took on an insane rhythm. My hands moved across his back and down to his ass, feeling each muscle contract and expand as he came, as his seed discharged inside me, warming further my already sweltering insides. And then I also understood why the French call it 'la petite mort' -- 'the little death' -- as my body convulsed yet again, and I came over both of us. I had died and gone to heaven.

It took him a while to recover and pull out of me, stretch his back, and then nuzzle in on my shoulder. He sighed. "Yeah," he said, and nodded like he did before. "I really do love you -- but you didn't seem to believe me, so I had to...you know...do something about that."

"Oh. Well I believe you now," I said, and tilted his head up to kiss him. "I love you too, which is why I had to find out."

"Really?" he said and smirked. "I guess we can do this more often then."

"Yes." Absolutely. Believe me, we will.