Dangerously Happy (24 page)

“
We do, don’t we?” Dario looked at me, as if to ask if it was alright, and put his arm around me. Then he fixed his gaze on Tom and gave him his easy, assured smile.

“
God. You’re serious.” Tom looked like someone had just told him the U.S. president was an alien. Like something absolutely, incontrovertibly impossible, something that meant the world was less known and much more dangerous than he’d realized had just been proven true before his eyes. And there was that little flaw among the facets of his eyes, that dark fear Dario had seen in those men in the woods. In me. He let out a weird, nervous little laugh. “No offense, Dario. Against you, against being gay or anything. Just, Aidan, I honestly don’t get it. After Jessica. After Avalyn. There’s about twenty hot chicks throwing themselves at you every time you have a gig at the loft. Melissa.” No clue how sour that last note rang for me.

Clara laughed. “What I don’t get is you, Dario. “You’re way out of Aidan’s league.” Sweet Clara. Her mother’s daughter. Expert diplomat. I wish it had only been a joke to diffuse the awkwardness swallowing up our surprise double date, but it was pretty much what I’d been thinking ever since we got together.

Dario smiled. “You just don’t see how beautiful he is, because he’s your brother.”

Tom looked like he was going to puke. I was actually shocked at how badly he was taking it. We’d had gay friends all our lives. I’d never heard him say anything really homophobic. Nothing more than the occasional taunt, teasing a straight guy about being gay, the way we’d all given each other shit whenever someone fucked up a pass in football, or a swing in baseball, saying they threw or hit or ran like a girl.

“
Tom, I swear to God, if you don’t snap out of it I’m going to start worrying that you're about to come out, too,” Clara said.

“
What?” He looked almost ready to slap her, so much so my whole body went tense, like it was prepping for a fight my brain hadn’t been told about.

“
That’s the only explanation I can think of for how you’re acting. Because if you’re not having gay feelings, there’s nothing here for you to be so freaked out about.”

He immediately dialed it back a notch. “I’m not freaked out.”

Clara laughed. “Fooled me.”

“
I’m just surprised. Because, you know, Aidan’s straight. Come on, we’ve been on double dates with our gay friends. Jack and Sung. Alex and Seth. Even you and Christopher,” he said, gesturing to Dario but not quite meeting his eyes. “But Aidan’s straight.”

“
Apparently not,” I said.

“
What, just all of a sudden you’re grossed out by girls and into guys?”

“
No. I’d say little by little, more and more I was into Dario, until I fell in love with him. And I’m not at all grossed out by girls. Just, I’m with Dario now.”

Tom’s face went beet red. I have to say, it was nice being on the other side, making someone else blush, for a change. It was tempting to fuel the fire by mentioning our threesomes with Vera, but I kept that delicious thought to myself.

I don’t know if it was Tom’s awkward behavior, or the way Dario and I kept looking at each other to ground ourselves, the fact that despite the difficult conversation, our happiness was pretty much oozing out of our pores, but I felt like Clara was looking at us in a pique of envy. Then she smiled, raised her glass and, looking at me, said, “I’m so happy for you. For both of you.” She clinked her glass against mine, then Dario’s, then held her glass up in front of Tom. Looking a little sheepish, like he was starting to feel a bit ashamed of himself, Tom picked up his glass and clinked it against Clara’s. Then he looked at me, cleared his throat, gave me a rather sportsmanlike grin of concession, and clinked my glass, and finally Dario’s.

“
Me too, guys,” he said. “Obviously I’m a little thrown off. But I’m happy for you. You’re two of my favorite people. It’s great that you’re together.”

I’d been afraid they’d been on the brink of running out on us, but after that we stayed for three more rounds, and the night out turned into one of the most fun I’d had in almost a year. The dinner a few nights later went amazingly well, too. Dario and my mom—who’s a professor of literature at USC—spent half the night comparing and debating the merits of their favorite authors. I almost felt jealous, like he’d replaced me as her favorite (formerly only) son, and like he was finding her wittier, better read, and more excited by his world of literature than I’d ever be (which, unfortunately, is all just true). Meanwhile, my dad, and even Tom were being friendly and polite, but in a way that was as if they were pretending nothing had changed. Like Dario was just a friend who’d been granted a seat at the family table. Even though it was his table. Probably because Dario was making a point of not touching me. Of not being too close to me. Not giving any sign of any physical connection between us. So when he got up and cleared the table, I got up to help and, while we were at the counter rinsing the dishes, I put my hand on the small of his back, said, “Thanks for cooking. Everything was perfect.” And I kissed his shoulder. He gave me a grin that looked more than anything else like a reward for being brave. “Let me wash up,” I said, and took over the cleanup while he opened the bottle of dessert wine my parents had brought, and went on playing the role of gracious host to perfection. It was a little surreal seeing him switch into dinner party mode after months of seeing him in the role of master of ceremonies at our bohemian gatherings.

When we moved over to the couches to have our dessert, I made a point of sitting next to Dario, close enough that our thighs were touching. And at some point I rested my hand on his thigh. I saw Tom throw a glance at my dad, who was making a heroic effort not to notice where my hand was laying. But I felt good. Happy. Dad and Tom needed a little time to get used to the idea, that was all. When Dario filled everyone’s glass with more dessert wine, my dad even made a toast, “To the happy couple.” I’m pretty sure my mom put him up to it, but he gave me a surprisingly emotional, fatherly smile as he did it, and it meant more to me than I could have guessed.

“
I have a slightly kinky thing I’d like to try with you,” Dario said one night as we were getting ready for bed.

“
Oh yeah, dirty boy? And what’s that?”

I want you to get undressed and get in bed, and I want you to stay absolutely still, absolutely passive while I touch you. As if you were unconscious. You’re not allowed to kiss me, or touch me. You’re not allowed to pull away, or press yourself closer. No moans of pleasure. No words of impatience. Just let it happen to you, everything I’m going to do.”

“
Do you have a necrophilia fetish you forgot to mention?” I teased.

Index finger at his lips. “Shhhh. Corpses don’t talk.”

He was kidding. I was almost sure. I’d thought I’d rapidly advanced to a point where nothing he asked of me could surprise me, but suddenly I felt nervous, like I was wading into murky waters. How could someone I loved so much, trusted so completely (so completely I’d put my total faith in him when I’d fucked Vera, gagged and bound without asking her permission first) still make my heart pound with the primal urge to protect and defend myself? My cock was already swelling.

I undressed. I lay down. On my back, as he instructed. Arms by my side. Like corpse pose in yoga.

“
Make your body soft. Completely relaxed,” he said in a slow, soothing voice. “Eyes closed, but relaxed. Feel the weight of your body on the bed. As if, slowly, every cell in your body has become so heavy that you can’t move. No matter what happens, you can’t lift your head. Not even a finger. Relax your jaw. Relax your tongue. Everything soft. Heavy.”

I had to resist the urge to laugh because there was one part of me that absolutely was not soft. But I stayed still. Even the muscles of my face. Utterly passive.

I felt the shift, the compression of the mattress as he mounted the bed and, I think, held himself over me. Yes, on top of me, the heat of him, the weight of him slowly, gradually sinking onto me. It’s amazing how strange it felt, not responding to the body of my lover on top of me. A surprising, slightly anxious thrill. Already I felt my cock rising against him, like it was defying the rest of my body and seeking him, nuzzling up against his balls.

The warm feathering of his breath, then his lips against my forehead, my temple, my cheek, my nose, my ear, my lips. Then a kiss. God, such a strange, rousing feeling, his tongue pressing into my passive mouth, his lips sucking my lax, parted lips. A thrilling little bite that made me think of pain, but never provoked it. I was starting to breathe faster, and I only realized my body had gone taut when he whispered, “Calm. Soft. Slow, easy breaths.”

His mouth on my ear, his teeth gently tugging, tongue circling, briefly probing, driving that slightly unsettling thrill down into my belly, into my balls. Inch by inch, leaving no millimeter of skin forgotten, he kissed, mouthed, tongued, bit, licked me, not one nerve unstirred from my forehead to my toes, with the exception of my nipples and my genitals, which he meticulously avoided. I never would have guessed how intensely willing my body not to respond—no grunts of pleasure, no heavy breathing, no squirming, no touching back, no pulling him against me—diverted all that energy, all that focus, all that escalating, tormenting arousal and pleasure to my cock.

I felt the bed shift with his movement, heard the rustle of the bedclothes as he arranged something next to me. Then I felt his hands, his arms sliding under me, lifting me, and I was submerged so deep in my role of passive body, I don’t think a single muscle flexed. My body just sagged heavy in his arms as he lifted me and turned me and put me on my stomach. Then he had to lift my shoulder, extract my arm, which had gotten pinned under me during the move, and he took his time extending it by my side. Turned my head for me, into a comfortable position. Arranged my legs, extended, slightly parted. Then he started kissing again, biting again, licking and sucking earlobes, nape of neck, shoulders, fingers, and every inch in between. My back, even my sides, usually too ticklish for me to be still even for a caress, but I was still, the electric current surging from under his mouth sending hot jolts straight to my cock. Then his mouth was on my ass, biting, probably leaving bruises. My legs. My feet. Fucking hell, what he did to my feet. Like being devoured, his open mouth, his tongue working my arch, the incredibly sensitive spaces between my toes, and the toes too, and it was like my body, even my mind was gone. There was nothing, nothing but the nerves coming alive and surging with pleasure under his mouth, and my swollen, throbbing, aching cock and balls.

My legs slid slowly over the covers as he pushed them open, and then—God, I’d stayed still for everything, even the delicious ravaging of those usually terribly ticklish places, but now—his hands spreading me, and his mouth. Holy fuck, what he was doing with his mouth and I almost groaned, almost begged him to wait, almost lifted myself from the bed, but I didn’t. I stayed still, I even stayed heavy and soft and pressed to the bed as if gravity had been dialed up four hundred percent, while he gently teased my asshole with the tip of his tongue, then licked it in eager, heavy strokes, while he sucked and probed and fucking hell I’ve never been such a living, breathing mass of need as I was passively letting him eat my ass, but somehow I wasn’t panting or quivering or clawing at the sheets.

I wasn’t even aware of him getting the lube, but then his finger was sliding easily into my ass, just a little teasing, pleasing, greasing penetration. Then the sound—God, I could hardly bear to wait for it—of the condom wrapper tearing open, the faint squeak of the latex sheathing his cock, then, Jesus, God, finally, his warmth and weight on me, his knees pushing my legs open, the slippery probing of his cock between my cheeks, the nudge and pressure of his cockhead seeking entry, and then, fuck, yes, his cock burrowing through my little hole, stretching, penetrating, filling me.

He went slow. It sounded like he was subjecting himself to cruel, masochistic penance, as if his cock had been aching as terribly as mine, for as long as mine, and against his own desperate need to relieve that agony, he was torturing himself, making the need worse, denying it’s release. Grunting. Almost sobbing. Barley moving. But fuck, yes, driving the head of his cock up against that knot of nerves inside of me every time. And every slow push into me driving my cock slowly back and forth over the pillow under my hips. He fucked me like that, him trembling, grunting, flexing slowly against me over and over, me still, lax, quiet, my entire consciousness reduced to the feel of him inside me, and my aching cock readying for release, until I started coming, my limp body seizing now, suddenly rigid, convulsing, him giving in to his need now, really fucking me, deep, hard, urgent, groaning, seizing, then collapsing over me, trembling, panting.

“
What was it like?” he asked me when we’d come to our senses.