Chapter 10: The Casserole Can Wait
The baked ziti sat forgotten on the table, a monument to a different life. The defiance from moments before crackled in the air, but it was a fragile thing, needing reinforcement. Taichi saw it in the way Ethan’s eyes darted to the window, to the door, as if the walls themselves were listening. Words had gotten them here, to this precipice. Now, Taichi needed action to shove them both over the edge.
He moved without hesitation. He pushed the heavy ceramic dish further down the table with a grating scrape, clearing the space between them. Then he stepped into Ethan, his hands firm on the older man’s hips, and turned him, pressing his back against the very same counter where they’d fallen into each other just before the doorbell rang.
“Tai—” Ethan began, his voice a strained warning.
Taichi ignored it. He dropped to his knees on the cool kitchen tile, the hard linoleum a shock against his bones. He looked up the long line of Ethan’s body, from the worn leather of his work boots, up his denim-clad legs, to the distinct bulge straining against his fly. Ethan’s face was a mask of anguish and want, his lips parted, his breath coming in short gusts.
With steady hands, Taichi unbuckled the thick leather belt. The rasp of the prong leaving the hole was loud in the quiet kitchen. He popped the button of Ethan’s jeans, dragged the zipper down a tooth at a time. The sound was obscene. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of jeans and briefs and tugged them down just enough, freeing Ethan’s cock.
It was heavy, already fully hard, the flushed head dark and wet at the tip. Taichi heard Ethan’s sharp intake of breath above him. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took the entire length into his mouth in one smooth, deep swallow.
Ethan cried out, a raw, fractured sound. His hands flew to Taichi’s head, his fingers twisting into the dark, tousled hair. “Christ. Fuck.”
Taichi’s world narrowed to the weight and taste of him—salty, clean, unmistakably male. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back until just the head rested on his tongue. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive crown, lapping at the slit, before plunging down again, taking him deep, his nose pressing into the coarse hair at the base. He could feel Ethan’s thighs trembling against his shoulders.
“Your mouth,” Ethan gasped, his hips giving an involuntary, shallow thrust. “God, your fucking mouth.”
Taichi moaned around him, the vibration pulling another ragged groan from Ethan. He set a ruthless rhythm, bobbing his head, using one hand to stroke the thick base he couldn’t take. His other hand went to his own aching hardness, palming himself roughly through his jeans. The dual sensations—the giving, the taking—made his head spin.
He pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening shaft. He looked up, meeting Ethan’s wild, hooded gaze. “I want you to come down my throat,” Taichi said, his voice wrecked. “I want to taste it. I want you to paint my fucking insides with it.”
Ethan’s expression shattered. All the resistance, the guilt, it bled away, replaced by pure, unadulterated need. “Do it,” he growled, his grip tightening. “Take it.”
Taichi swallowed him again, deeper this time, relaxing his throat. He worked him with a desperate, hungry pace, his own hips grinding against his fist. He felt the telltale tension coiling in Ethan’s body, the tightening of his balls in Taichi’s cupping hand. Ethan’s breathing became frantic, broken curses tumbling from his lips.
“I’m—Tai, I’m gonna—”
The warning was cut off by a deep, guttural groan. Ethan’s hips jerked, spasming, as he came. Hot, bitter spurts flooded Taichi’s mouth. He swallowed convulsively, again and again, until the pulses subsided. He kept sucking, gentler now, milking every last drop, his tongue lapping along the softening length. He didn’t stop until Ethan was sensitive and spent, his body slack against the counter.
Only then did Taichi pull back. He licked his lips clean, then leaned in once more to run his tongue slowly up the underside of Ethan’s cock, a final, thorough cleaning. He tucked him back into his jeans, doing up the zipper and button with a strange, intimate tenderness.
He looked up. Cum glistened on his swollen lower lip. A reckless, triumphant grin spread across his face.
“Now,” Taichi said, his voice a low, satisfied rasp. “Where were we?”
Ethan stared down at him, his chest heaving. He looked utterly destroyed, emptied out. The afternoon sun caught the silver in his hair, the sheen of sweat on his temple. He slowly, tenderly, untangled his fingers from Taichi’s hair. His hand, calloused and rough, came down to cradle Taichi’s jaw, his thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t answer the question. He just sank down, his own knees hitting the floor with a thud, and pulled Taichi into a crushing embrace there on the kitchen floor. He buried his face in the crook of Taichi’s neck, his breath hot and shaky. He held him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere down the street. The smell of baked pasta and garlic slowly reclaimed the room. The casserole was cold.