The Billion Dollar Alternate Reality by Reanna Pryce

Author:Reanna Pryce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: In The Dark

“Bedroom, wardrobe they tell me is a bedroom, bathroom, everything else,” Seb gestures vaguely at doors, couches, the dim suggestion of a shadowy kitchen nook in the corner of the room. An echo of a similar conversation that feels a lifetime ago. “I suggest we really kick things off in the bedroom.”

“Calm down, Casanova,” Charlie moves around the room, fumbling for a lamp. “Let’s take a look at the infamous Dixon Love Nest.”

“You should probably be aware that I’m still setting everything back up after it was decorated so if it looks a bit clinical, then — oh.”

The light clicks on, they blink around the room and then at one another.

This is the room he imagined Seb in a thousand times. There are posters on the wall, framed and mounted, kitsch seventies movies with cult followings and artists like Prince, Michael Jackson, Jim Morrison. The couch, huge and comfortable, is dressed in mismatched cushions and a worn-out throw he imagines Seb used to have on his bed as a kid. His shoes peek out from underneath, a dirty cereal bowl on the countertop in the kitchen a smudged mug on the coffee table still clinging to the stone-cold remnants of this morning’s coffee. There’s something that looks suspiciously like a guitar in one corner, swaddled in two jackets and a discarded t-shirt. Charlie grins, affection suffusing through him. He raises an eyebrow, “A bit clinical?”

“Well, you should’ve seen it before I cleaned up,” Seb huffs, touching the blanket gently, petting it with the same tenderness reserved for family pets. “I — do you like it?”

It’s so shy. So very heartfelt. Charlie finds himself closing the gap willingly but without real awareness. He touches Seb under the chin, tilts up his mouth and relishes in the thought that they have all night in this wonderful place that feels like Seb, looks like Seb, smells like —

Okay, it smells like fresh paint, really. But still. He has no doubt whatsoever that they can make it smell a whole lot dirtier by the time they’re done. They kiss, sweet and slow, Seb humming in the back of his throat under Charlie’s mouth. “Are you singing for me?” he asks against the plump curve of Seb’s lower lip.

Seb smiles, dazed, “It’s either the synesthesia or you’re turning me into music.”

They collapse onto the couch in a tangle of jackets, shirts and hands roaming whole continents of bare, warm skin. He finds the pink pebble of Seb’s right nipple and licks, sucks, chases the sensation with the barest suggestion of teeth. There’s a hand in his pants and, for the life of him, he can’t work out if it’s Seb’s or his own, pulling on his cock with desperation. Finally, on his back and with his pants caught around his knees, Seb groans, head thrown back and throat bare and begging.

“Turn over,” he whispers to the pink curve of Seb’s cock. “Come on, turn over.”

Seb does, clumsy, tangled in his own jeans and Charlie’s shirt snagged around his ankles.

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