His room is full of colour. He likes to paint. The evidence is on the floor, on the walls, in his hair. Flecks of white and gold and orange. Warm colours, like his smile, like his eyes as he watches me spin in wonder, taking in every little detail. His desk is clear, the pencils and brushes in their correct place. His bookshelf covers one wall, squeezed to overflowing with doorstep sized novels, notebooks and sketch pads.
Fingers trace the spines. He laughs, saying, “I haven’t read half of them. Do you want to borrow one?”
The novels are not so interesting. His heart is in his art. Some of the sketch pads are old; from middle school. He blushes all the way to his ears, seeing those old, clumsy lines. Later books only make him blush deeper. Hips and legs and breasts, beautiful, bold, growing in confidence.
He sits on the bed, watching. His white shirt is unbuttoned, white singlet beneath tight enough to be enticing. He smells good, like something deep and warm and safe. Outside, sunshine beckons, a weekend made for walking and swimming at the beach. Where would he normally be, on such a day?
He has chocolate eyes with little golden flecks, like caramel. His laugh is a hot, bubbling spring as he says, “You are like no one I have ever met…”
Sitting on the too soft bed, with a duvet covered in little space ships, there are a few tentative touches. His hands are shaking. He leans closer, breath minty and cool. Words roll off his tongue like honey.
“My beautiful Susie,” he says. “I think I love you.”
Love.
His kiss is neither sloppy or dry. He tastes good. The room blurs as we sink into the perfect moment. Head spinning, skin aching, clinging, desperate and needing. He loves and he wants, but he holds back.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Who were you drawing, in that book?”
The silence is not uncomfortable. His face speaks for him. He is telling the truth when he says, “You, of course.”
Another kiss and he says, “I would love to know how close I was…”
“Close enough. You missed a mole or two.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret.”
“A treasure hunt?”
“Maybe.”
He is gentle, paying special attention to each button on my shirt. Layer after layer are discarded on the paint speckled cream carpet beside his single-sized bed.
“I found one.” He points, then tickles. Squeals of laughter, tumbling off the bed. Half dressed, vulnerable but safe too. He drinks me in, sketching in his mind through those chocolate eyes. Savouring the moment. There is no hurry.
“When did I get so lucky?” His voice is husky, hungry. He kisses in new, exposed places, ticklish places, warm and wet places. He wins moans and happy squirms. How does he know what to do?
His fingers massage, tease, slick and smooth. His lips press against my cheek and whisper, “It has always been you.”
“Why?” He is the handsome one, the brave one. He is the heart throb, the wild, passionate artist, the subject of crushes and unrequited hopes. Could he really be telling the truth? After four months together, there is still uncertainty, doubt, disbelief. Who is the lucky one?
“There is a light in you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “You glow with it, your faith.”
His dick is hard, straining, but without permission, he ignores the discomfort. How can he keep his head, full of all this emotion? The last barriers between us removed, he still waits, protecting us both, our hopes and our dreams, as he retrieves a condom from his desk.
Wordcount: 612
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