Foxes (28 page)

I have to lock my door, and Micky tries to help but he keeps touching me too, pressing his lips against my cheeks and my hair. Against scars and not-scars as though it doesn’t matter, as if there is no difference.

“Too much, too fast,” I stutter, not quite managing to vocalize how absolutely terrified I am.

I’m stuck, crouched down, resting my head against the door, the deadbolt loose in my fingers.

Micky takes my hand and places it over his heart—a lightning-quick flutter in his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Trust me. We can go as slow as you want.”

“I want to hold you,” I whisper. I do, I want to hold him so badly. “But I don’t know… anything,” I mutter, embarrassed.

“We need to be comfortable,” Micky says gently. He pulls me to my feet, then over to my nest.

I get the idea being in charge is not his thing, but because I’m uncertain, I’m so grateful he’s leading me through this.

We sit down, and, biting his lip and looking at once nervous and excited, his skin flushed like he’s been running around the room, Micky says, “Have you ever… been with anyone, like, anyone at all?”

I shake my head.

“Okay. But you know some things, though? You masturbate, right? I mean everyone does that, don’t they?” Micky is quickly beginning to look out of his depth, but when I smile hesitantly, he smiles hesitantly back.

“I’ve watched stuff,” I say quietly, concentrating on my hands, thinking back to late nights in one of the children’s homes when some of the older boys would get a video from somewhere.

“Porn?”

I nod, too embarrassed to say it was men and women, and I used to imagine the women were men too. I was too scared to find gay porn on my own. I’m superglad Micky doesn’t press me for details.

“Real sex doesn’t have the rules that porn has. It’s much easier. Like the only rules right now are that I want you to touch me, just wherever you want, and I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. I mean, I get that it’s a thing for you, maybe. Just do what feels good, and first times can be over really quick or, you know, it might take you superlong to come if you’re nervous—and that’s okay. Me, for example, I think if you put your hand on my dick right now, I might come pretty quick because, uh, I just really want you, and if you touch me, I know my body is going to let go, and I’m going to explode like a fountain!” Micky is speaking so fast and his voice is getting so high, I think he may be draining helium from the air. I remember he does this when he’s nervous.

Whereas my brain is stuck. One word repeating: wow-wow-wow. I think I may quite possibly be broken.

“Want to take your suit off?” Micky asks, tilting his head to look at me.

Suit. Off
, I repeat to myself. Right. I should take it off. I don’t want to crumple it.

Focus.
I touch my pocket with the scrunched-up suit ticket. The names on the tickets suddenly have meaning: Crestwell, da Silva. I’m wearing Micky’s brother’s suit—or at least the one he was going to borrow. I hope they didn’t have too much trouble getting replacements.

This is weird. Even I think we should probably talk about it, and I’m not much of a one for talking.

But as though he’s made of utter distraction, Micky jumps to his feet, gives me a sudden, gleeful look, and starts to strip. He likes stripping. I fiddle with my tie as I watch him, all skinny and beautiful and full of grace, stretching his arms up, making every movement a performance. He leaves on these too-big boxer shorts he brought to stop the itchy wool trousers “irritating his ass” (his words), and cups his hand over his dick to stop it flopping forward.

“Don’t want to poke your eye out,” he says with a goofy, lopsided grin as he crosses his legs and sinks down next to me. And I snort out a laugh, feeling better that we can still laugh, that sex stuff doesn’t have to be all intense and serious, because if it did, I really think I might not be able to take it.

With far less grace than Micky, I take the suit jacket off and unbutton the shirt. I don’t stand up; I’m too shy. Micky sits next to me, stroking himself occasionally through the fabric of his shorts. I can’t believe he’s doing that, or that I can sort of see the outlined shape of him beneath the thin fabric. It makes me so hard when I think about taking his shorts down and seeing him up close.

“I can take them off… if you want?” he says, catching my eye.

I shake my head and look away, blushing. “Not yet. I like thinking about it.”

“Anticipation?”

I nod.

“Me too. Though I kinda want to pounce on you.” He grins, all big teeth showing, and a shudder goes through me as I think about what they’d feel like on my skin.

“Is it weird that I want you to bite me?” I whisper breathlessly, with no idea where I got the courage to say that out loud.

“Uh, really?” Micky makes a noise halfway between a whine and a groan, and slips his hand inside the waistband of his shorts.

I nearly swallow my tongue.

“I would love to bite you,” he says in this really low voice, and I can see he’s stroking himself slow, slow, slow. “I like the idea of doing anything you ask me.”

“Lie down,” I say.

And he does.

I laugh and choke at the same time, because I can’t believe he’s really doing that and I don’t know how to react.

“Want me to stop?” he looks down at his shorts, at his hand moving beneath the fabric.

I no longer know what it is I want.

Trying to be bolder, I stand up to slip the shirt off over my shoulders. The air is cold against my skin. I don’t know what goes wrong, but I stop and hunch over, all at once too exposed, too self-conscious, too unsure. I can’t look at Micky.

I bring my hands up to cover my face. It’s too much. All of it is too much. And I don’t want to disappoint him, but he said he’s falling in love with me, and doesn’t that mean it’s okay? That this is okay? That if I fall apart, he will catch me? I don’t want to fall apart. But I trust him.

I trust him.

My knees buckle, but somehow they don’t hit the floor. Instead, arms that are stronger than they look guide me into my nest. I’m wrapped in warmth, and soothing words are whispered in my ear. Micky doesn’t hug me tightly, though I think he wants to. Instead he lies out next to me and pulls my good arm over his chest.

“It was too much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He reaches for my hand again and places it over his heart. His skin is all warm and soft, and it feels like the whole world is trembling, not just his heart.

I want to stay like this forever.

I open my eyes and find Micky watching me.

“My dick’s kind of a dick,” he says, and I snort softly. “He only thinks about one thing.”

“My dick isn’t any better,” I mutter, feeling really weird.

“Your dick is a total gentleman, whereas mine is a complete slut—” Micky stops and bites his lip, looking awkward. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. Despite the fact that I’ve been paid money for sex, I’m not a slut…. I’m not someone who’d ever be unfaithful. Not in a million—”

“Can I kiss you?” I ask before I lose my nerve.

His heart jumps beneath my fingers, and his eyes darken. “Yeah,” he breathes, hotching closer and bringing his hand up to my neck.

His touch is like static and I get goose bumps all the way down my arms.

I lean down and brush my lips against his. I want to be gentle, like snowfall, but Micky groans and opens his mouth, and I find what I really want to do is taste him more than anything.

Touching his tongue with mine makes my dick feel needy and hot, like it wants to explode and all I need to do is find the button to detonate it. It’s so messy and warm and wet and the best fucking thing I’ve ever done with my mouth. Excitement thrums through me like electricity. It’s on the verge of being too much and at the same time, not quite enough, but I know I can stop at any time, that Micky would just let me hold him and put my hand over his heart.

I think I’m probably really bad at kissing, I have no idea what I’m doing, but Micky shifts until I’m lying on top of him and our chests are touching, and he mumbles, “Nnnngh, God, yes… don’t hold back.”

There’s a moment when I feel all his skin against mine and I can’t breathe. All I can do is stop and look down at him, wide-eyed and stunned. At his hair all fanned out like a starburst on the dark blankets, at the way he’s looking at me in this completely intense and uncomplicated way, as if he needs something from me and I’m giving it to him. I also get the sense that he’s not going to let go completely because he’s watching my reactions to check I’m not freaking out.

With a wriggle of his hips, he knocks me off balance so that my good arm collapses and all my weight comes down on top of him. I’m scared I’m going to crush him.

“I want to be crushed,” he whispers, reading my mind. “I want you so close to me.”

Then he puts his mouth on mine again, and I forget everything.

It’s all so hot. In every sense, I think. I’m still wearing the heavy woolen trousers, and inside them I’m so hard, but I’m still a bit scared to rub against him, as I want to do. What if I come and mess up the trousers? What if I come and do something weird like piss on him uncontrollably afterward? That happens, I’ve heard, though I can’t remember where from—maybe the kids in the home told me. They used to do stuff like that when they discovered I found it hard to sort truth from fiction. Thoughts are beginning to crowd in my brain again. The sensation of my mouth against his is becoming too much, but I don’t want to stop.

Instead I kiss Micky’s neck, his collarbone, his armpit, his nipple. I touch the skin above his heart. I trace swirls around it with my tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps.

I look up and see he’s squeezing his eyes shut. He tugs at my hand gently as if his fingers are asking mine a question. They must say yes, because suddenly I’m touching him, my hand beneath the waistband of his shorts, feeling the trembling heat, the hot, sticky skin of his dick, feeling the way his hand is carefully folding my fingers into a fist and his hips are pushing up and into it. Hurriedly, he shoves his shorts all the way down with his other hand.

His hips jerk erratically, and he sort of yelps as he arches his back. I know what to expect, but I’m still shocked when thick creamy fluid spurts over his chest. I think this might be the button I need to make me explode, but now I’m even more terrified of messing up the trousers. And I don’t want to let go of Micky because he looks so fragile and undone and his dick feels like this shuddery, tender thing in my hand that I want to stroke and hold and look after.

“Danny?” Micky reaches out and touches my cheek. “You okay?”

I nod really fast. Micky drops his hand to my heart.

“You sure?” All at once Micky is together again, as if he didn’t just fly apart in my arms at all. He peers at me closely. His eyes are very dark. “Do you want to… come?”

He looks away after he speaks, sweet and coy, even though I’m holding his dick in my hand, loving the feel of it softening. When I stroke it, he shivers like I’m prodding him with an electric charge, so I try and keep my hand still.

My thumb is resting against a pulse point in his pubic hair; it’s so strong it’s almost as if I’m feeling his heart.

“If… if you don’t want me to touch you, you could jerk off over me. I’m okay with that,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to touch you?”

I stare at him.

I do and I don’t. What if I can’t? What if I—

Micky reaches down and strokes me through the trousers. My brain stutters.

Ohhhh.

I sink back, letting go of his dick, letting go of everything—as though he’s pressed a button that makes my body power down and all my nerve endings become concentrated in my dick. Nothing else matters.

Keeping his gaze on my face, he unbuttons and unzips the trousers, then pushes them down my thighs. I am no help whatsoever.

I’m a little apprehensive he’s just going to whip my boxers off too, and it’ll be too much, but he runs his fingers up and down my dick through the material, until I’m panting and lifting my hips, begging him with my body to touch me harder.
Please.

With infinite gentleness, he licks circles on my shoulder, and then I feel the scrape of his teeth. I think I might make some really embarrassing sort of noise—one of those long guttural groans people in porn films make when they’re about to shoot their load. It only makes Micky bite harder. He slips his hand inside my boxers and with tender fingers strokes my balls. Then he grips me hard and pumps his fist up and down, all fierce and firm and exactly what I need. I am at once weak and strong: I’m expanding like the universe we’re creating all around us, so big, and yet every detail is important. I’m so in love.

Everything in me tenses up as I come, spilling over his fingers and burying my face against his chest. Searching, even like this, for the beat of his heart.

MICKY KEEPS
kissing the tooth marks he made on my shoulder. One of his upper incisors drew blood when he bit me, and he feels bad. I don’t, though. I feel fucking amazing.

We lie in the dark, all curled up in my nest. I hold Micky close. So close. I don’t think I need to talk to him ever again. I feel as if he must know everything about me now, and it’s not as scary as I might have imagined.

I do want to know about Dominic, though, but it’s also not something I want to ask. I want Micky to be ready to tell me. But maybe sometimes you have to push it. If Micky had never pushed it with me, we wouldn’t be here. And we’re safe together, aren’t we? Right now we’re everything, we’re in love and we’re safe. Nothing can touch us. No past or future selves.

“Dominic suits you,” I whisper.

I remember Micky saying the same thing when he found out my name. And the thing is, it really does, even though I don’t think I could ever call him Dominic and get used to it—he’ll always be Micky to me.

“I stopped being Dominic when I got on that plane.”

Micky rolls onto his side, and I can just about see his eyes shining in the dark. When I reach out, he places my hand over his heart. I wonder if I’ll ever find a single other thing as comforting.