He Set the Couch Down and Reached for Me

I met Nico on the sidewalk with a couch between us and August sitting on my neck. He was thirty-six, I was thirty-one, and a mutual friend had texted us both the same plea: movers flaked, couch is paid for, third floor, no elevator. Nico had the shoulders for it. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, gray T-shirt already mapped with sweat, forearms corded when he got his end up. Logan Square traffic crawled past. He looked at me over the upholstery and said, "You Drew?" I said I was. He grinned like the heat didn't own him. "Then let's not die on the stairs."

The stairwell smelled like old paint and fried onions. We took the landings one at a time, the couch knocking the rail, my palms slipping. At the second floor he set his end down and shook out his hands. I watched his shirt cling between his shoulder blades, the line of his back, his jeans gone dark at the waistband. He caught me looking. He didn't joke it off. He held my eyes a second longer than a stranger would, breathing hard, and said, "One more." My pulse kicked somewhere the stairs hadn't touched.

His place was bare except for boxes and a mattress still in plastic. We dropped the couch in the middle of the room and laughed the stupid laugh you laugh when you haven't died. Sun came through the blinds in hard bars. A box fan rattled in the window and didn't do much. Nico brought two beers from a fridge that held exactly that and a lime. The glass hurt my hand it was so cold. I drank half of mine in one go. He watched my throat. I watched him watch it.

"You've been looking at me since the sidewalk," he said. Not mean. Just true. His voice had gone lower. "I've been looking back. I want to kiss you. If you don't want that, we finish the beer and I call you a car. No weirdness."

I set the bottle on a box. My shirt was stuck to me. I could smell both of us, sweat and detergent and hot nylon. "I want it," I said. "I wanted it when you told me not to die on the stairs." He laughed once, short, and stepped in. "Yeah?" "Yeah. Kiss me."

He kissed me like he'd been thinking about it on every landing, unhurried and sure, one hand at the back of my neck, thumb in the damp hair there. His mouth was cold from the beer and then it wasn't. I opened for him. He tasted like lime and heat. I got my hands under his shirt and found skin, the jump of muscle along his ribs, the softer give at his waist. He made a sound into my mouth that went straight to my cock. "This okay?" he said against my lip. "All of it," I said. "Don't stop asking. Don't stop."

He pulled my shirt off and then his own. The fan moved over us and it felt like a hand. He was broader than I'd guessed, chest hair dark and curled with sweat, a scar like a pale comma under one pec. I put my mouth there. He hissed and held my head, not pushing, just keeping me. "Bed's still in the plastic," he said. "Floor, or the couch we nearly died for." "Couch," I said. He smiled against my temple.

He walked me back until my calves hit the cushion and I sat. He went to his knees between mine like he'd decided it on the stairs. He undid my belt and looked up. "Yes," I said, before he had to ask. He dragged my jeans and briefs down together. My cock came up hard against my stomach, wet at the tip. The air on it made me flinch. Nico wrapped his hand around me, slow, learning the weight, and then he took me into his mouth.

Heat and wet and the flat of his tongue under the head, then a long slide until I felt the back of his throat. He eased off, breathed, and did it again. I grabbed the couch arm. He hummed and the vibration ran through me. His free hand pinned my hip when I tried to thrust. He set the pace, spit shining on his fist when he stroked what his mouth left, then took me deep until my thighs shook. I told him I was close. He pulled off, lips swollen. "Not yet. I want you in me, or me in you. Your call."

"You in me," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. "I've got stuff in my bag. I didn't pack it for this." He kissed the inside of my thigh, a soft place, and it undid me worse than his mouth had. "I don't care why it's there. Get it."

I came back with lube and a condom. He was naked in the barred sunlight, cock thick and flushed, like he already belonged to the room. He rolled the condom on, slicked himself while I watched, then slicked his fingers. "On your back. Tell me if anything's too much." I lay on the couch, one foot on the floor, the other hooked over the back. He worked one finger into me, then two, slow, crooking until I swore and grabbed his wrist. "There." He kept at that spot until I was pushing down on his hand, and then he lined up and pressed in.

The stretch burned and then opened. He went inch by inch, watching my face, stopping when I hissed, moving when I nodded. "Okay?" "More." When he was all the way in, the room dropped out. Just his weight, his cock seated deep, his forehead on mine. He kissed me and started to move, and I told him I didn't want gentle.

He fucked me harder, the couch creaking, one hand by my head and the other on my cock. Sweat dripped onto my chest. I locked my ankles behind him and met him. "Look at me," he said, and his face pulled me over. I came over his fist, clenching around him. He groaned, buried himself, and came with my name in his throat. He pulled out careful, wiped me with a dish towel from a box labeled KITCHEN, and sat on the floor, hand on my knee. "You staying?" "Yeah," I said. "I'm staying."