Orientation (Benchmarks) by Kate Canterbary

Author:Kate Canterbary [Canterbary, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Vesper Press
Published: 2020-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

As predicted, we didn't get back to Mallori's house until late. After midnight, before dawn. Somewhere in the middle. The specifics of it were hazed over and gilded around the edges as only vodka could. Vodka and fiercely protective friends.

Since Tom and Wes sent us home with a holiday-printed Pyrex dish of leftovers—which we gorged in the back of the Uber to some extremely righteous Christian rock—we didn't raid Mallori's kitchen or call up for pizza.

Instead, we stumbled into the house, laughing and groping and loudly shushing each other as we shrugged out of our coats, kicked off our shoes. The now-empty Pyrex found its way to the sink with a clatter that probably woke the entire street. Max gathered me up in an embrace that was more tackle than hug and flattened a hand over my mouth.

"You're in my bed tonight," he said, wedging his thigh between my legs. "I want you there every fuckin' night, Jory. You know that?"

It wasn't a question in search of a response but I nodded anyway. I did know. He told me this almost once a week. On occasion, he shared this along with visual proof. His cock in gym shorts or boxer briefs. Under a thin sheet or in his fist. Dripping wet after a shower. I knew.

Neither of us was in a situation where we could manage regular sleepovers. My roommate was nuts about keeping everything just so and he hated unscheduled visitors. Max lived here with a family of four and often had unscheduled visitors in the form of his niece or nephew bounding down the basement stairs to tell him some amazing new thing.

None of these conditions were ripe for the carnality of a hot new relationship.

We spent a lot of time kissing in cars. We took long walks, went to the movies, ate at cozy restaurants where it was necessary to sit extremely close together rather than a product of our lust. And we capped those outings with at least an hour of car kissing. On the nights we retreated to Max's place, we'd settle a blanket over our laps and ignore the television while maintaining some deniability if the kids—or Mallori—came down for a visit.

And still, it wasn't enough.

"Downstairs," Max growled into my ear. "I want you downstairs now."

He led the way, my hand enveloped in his as we made our way into his cellar sanctuary. I had about five seconds to catch my breath before he had me pinned to a wall.

Max scraped his scruffy beard over the crook of my neck, his lips exploring my skin as his hand moved down until it squeezed my cock. There was no doubt he was in control here. His grip was firm and certain, like he knew what I needed better than I did.

"This is mine," he said, a hot breath puffing out over my neck as he stroked me.

"Oh my god, yes." It wasn't even a question—and he knew it.

"I want you. I want you more than anything.

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