Becca, my sister found me doing Zumba in the living room. Again.
“Why are you always halfway sweating when I walk in here?” she called from the kitchen, digging a spoon into a jar of peanut butter.
I was in a tshirt, dripping in sweat, black gym shorts dangerously low, trying to keep up with this overexcited Australian woman on YouTube screaming about hip rolls and pelvic engagement. Yeah, I gotta sculpt my butt if I want two hot men drooling over it.
“I live here too,” I panted, flinging my arms out in something that might’ve been a turn. “If anything, you’re always walking into my moments.” Yeah, I was talking about how she almost caught Dylan fucking me in the living room yesterday.
She strolled over, leaned against the doorway, and watched like I was her morning entertainment. “It’s giving... over-caffeinated twink energy,” she said, spoon between her teeth. “And also? Some very specific sexual tension.”
“I’m literally doing cardio., Becca. Chill.”
“Sure,” she grinned. “Tell that to your phone, which has buzzed five times in the last two minutes. Is it that hot dude Dylan sending you morning-after nudes?”
I stopped mid-workout.
“Sis, don’t... shut up you bitch.”, I laughed.
She was already lunging for the phone.
“Give me that!” I half-yelled, half-laughed, lunging after her. But she was slippery, ducking away with the speed of someone who’d been reading my drama since preschool.
“If he’s sending you dick pics, I need to see!” she said, dancing out of my reach. “For research purposes, of course..”, she grinned.
“It’s not...Jesus, Becca..”
She looked at message that popped up on the screen, tongue poking out in concentration.
And then she paused.
“Oh,” she said. “Wait. This isn’t Dylan.”
I froze. “...Don’t read that.”
But it was too late.
Her brow arched as she read the preview aloud. “‘Lunch today? My treat. ☕🍽️’."
"Okay, who the hell is 'Elliot💫🥖'?"
I lunged again.
She rolled away, cackling. “You saved him with a sparkle emoji, Troy? Seriously?.”
“Give it,” I hissed.
“Not until you explain why Sparkle Baguette is texting you about lunch,” she teased, still scrolling. “Weren’t you just at Dylan’s last night?”. (Yeah, I went back to his apartment again after our morning fuck session. Guilty)
My face was burning now. “Becca...”
She stopped cold. Then she looked up, eyes gleaming. “Troy. You two-timing little slut.”
“I’m not,” I said. “We didn’t do anything.”
Her grin was pure chaos. “Didn’t do anything? What, did you stare deeply into each other’s souls while he fed you croissants? And I am not really talking about an actual croissant.”, she laughed again.
“He made me dinner!” I said defensively. “It was just... pasta. Wine. Talking.”
“Oh my god, he fed you and you’re trying to act like it wasn’t 'anything'?”
I groaned and flopped face-first onto the couch.
“Show me what he looks like,” she said.
“No.”
“Troy.”
“I’m not showing you.”
“Don’t make me Google how to unlock a phone with a sweaty Zumba thumbprint.”
I rolled over, defeated, and opened the camera roll.
I scrolled past a couple selfies, then held one up for her. It was Elliot in a soft grey T-shirt, head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled from the sun. Casual. Half-smile. Tousled hair. Pretty.
Becca gasped.
“Dude,” she whispered, clutching my phone like it was a sacred artifact. “He’s like a dreamy French prince. Is that a mole under his eye? Fuck. He’s hot. In like... a men-who-own-silk-sheets way.”
I groaned. “Give it back.”
“Wait wait wait,” she said, sitting up straight. “Let me get this straight. You’re in the middle of a love-slash-fuck triangle with Mr. Caveman-Facefuck-Me-Against-The-Door and this... candlelit-dinner French dreamboat who sends you brunch invites?”
“Nothing happened with Elliot,” I said, already knowing I’d lost this battle.
Becca’s grin softened just slightly. “Okay. Then... what do you want to happen?”
I hesitated. My chest was still heaving from the Zumba. Or maybe not just from that. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
Becca poked my leg. “You always like extreme stuff.”
“I do not.”
“Yeah you do,” she said, dramatically flopping down beside me. “Now, It’s either guys who manhandle you or guys who write poetry about your freckles. There’s no middle ground.”
I laughed despite myself. “Shut up.”
She tilted her head, giving me a sisterly once-over. “Do you like Elliot?”
“He’s... sweet,” I said quietly.
“That’s not a no.”
“He’s smart. And funny. And he looks at me like he’s already planning to kiss me with his eyes”
Becca beamed. “You’re so down bad.”
I groaned again, dragging a pillow over my face. “Why is this happening? I was supposed to have a quiet summer. Be gay, do zumba, heal. Not...this.”
She nudged me. “Then don’t overthink it. Say yes to lunch. You don’t have to decide your entire romantic future right now. Just go. Be cute. Order a croissant.”
I peeked out from under the pillow. “You want me to flirt with both?”
“No,” she said, mock-serious. “I want you to lead both on until they fight over you in a park, preferably shirtless.”
“You are such a bitch..”
She grinned. “Seriously though. Text him back. Lunch doesn’t mean anything. Just... be honest. With him. And yourself.”
I sighed.
Picked up the phone.
Typed: Lunch sounds nice 😊
Paused.
Deleted the emoji. Re-added it. Deleted it again.
Then hit send.
And yeah, I was already blushing.
Becca saw the expression and kicked me playfully.
“Yup,” she said. “Down horrendously bad.”
______________________
The sun was too bright for how nervous I felt.
I stood outside the cafe Elliot had picked, trying to act normal. My reflection in the glass door didn’t help, hair a bit too styled, shirt too carefully wrinkled, like I was trying to look like I didn’t care. I did. Obviously. I had spent the whole morning telling myself this was nothing. Just lunch. Just two guys having food. People did it all the time.
And then he stepped out from inside.
White shirt. Open collar. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. He smiled like he hadn’t spent the last week teasing me with hands on my thigh and slow-burning kisses. Just warm and effortless, like we hadn’t crossed a line.
“Troy,” he said, his accent soft, that lazy elegance rolling off every syllable. “You made it.”
“Of course,” I said. “I like food.”
He laughed as he pulled the door open for me. “Good. Then I won’t be the only one eating.”
We sat under a striped awning, two iced coffees arriving before I had even gotten settled. The waiter knew him. Of course. I fiddled with my straw while he ordered us both some perfect, curated French-sounding lunch and leaned back like this wasn’t already too much.
“So,” Elliot said, folding his arms. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”
I blinked. “We’re skipping straight to that?”
“I find it’s more efficient,” he said with a smirk. “Otherwise we pretend to be normal for an hour and then I leave wondering if you’re just pretending to be this charming.”
I gave him a look. “You think I’m charming?”
He shrugged. “I think you’re distracted.”
I flushed and looked down. He wasn’t wrong. I could barely hold eye contact. Not because I wasn’t into it. Because I was. Fully. Painfully. He was calm in a way that made me fidget. Made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“It’s the shirt,” I muttered. “You can’t wear white like that and expect me to be composed.”
He laughed again, light and real. “You should see what I wear to bed.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re easy to tease.”
“You’re very good at it.”
Yeah, I completely avoided his question about “something you’ve never told anyone.”
------
The food arrived. He poured us water. His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the bread, and I swear I felt it in my knees. Under the table, our shoes bumped. Once. Twice. Not an accident. He didn’t move his.
I wasn’t sure when it shifted from a meal to something charged. Maybe around the moment he leaned in and said, “You have a little something on your lip,” then reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
Or maybe when he tilted his head, just slightly, and said, “You do this thing when you’re thinking hard. Your eyebrows twitch.”
“You’re really observant.”
He took a sip of his drink, eyes still on me. “I photograph people for a living. I have to be.”
I tried to focus on my salad. Failed. He leaned back and gave me a once-over, not in a gross way, just like he was letting himself enjoy what he saw.
“I think you’re trying very hard to seem relaxed,” Elliot said, his gaze warm and quiet. “Which usually means you’re not.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the accuracy. I was halfway through my iced espresso, my knee bouncing under the table. I had barely touched my sandwich. And I kept looking anywhere but directly at him for longer than three seconds.
“I’m chill,” I lied, instantly losing all credibility by knocking over the little glass jar of sugar packets.
Elliot reached forward, righted it, then brushed one of the paper wrappers off my hand like it was nothing. “You don’t have to be,” he said. “I like who you are when you’re not.”
There it was again, that calm confidence. Not cocky, not intense. Just present. Steady.
The opposite of Dylan in every way.
I bit into my sandwich just to shut myself up, chewing in silence while he watched me like I was some kind of weather pattern he was trying to figure out.
“You know,” I said eventually, licking some pesto off my thumb, “you’re very good at making people feel like they’re in a movie scene.”
He tilted his head. “Good scene or bad?”
“Good,” I admitted. “Like the kind where something’s about to happen.”
Elliot smiled. Not wide. Just… knowing. He glanced at the time and then back at me. “There’s a pop-up exhibit two streets over. Friend of mine is showing his new series. Nothing serious. Want to walk over with me?”
I hesitated for about half a second before nodding.
-----
We paid, stepped out into the sun, and started walking. It was warm out. The kind of warm that made everything feel slower. Softer. His sleeve brushed mine once, and neither of us said anything. His shirt was white, loose, open at the collar. A few strands of his hair fell onto his forehead, and I couldn’t stop watching the way the light played against his skin.
The gallery was tucked into an alley. One of those places that looked closed until you saw the open door and the faint music drifting out. Inside, it was dim, quiet, humming with the soft clinking of wine glasses and the murmur of small talk.
Photos lined the walls. Large prints. Black and white. A series of bodies. Not pornographic, not even fully nude...just close-ups. A shoulder blade. A jawline. Two hands tangled. Skin, sweat, freckles.
I stepped closer to one. It was a man’s back, caught mid-turn. His spine was a smooth line of light and shadow.
“Some pictures feel like they’re looking back at you, don’t they?” Elliot said softly behind me.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Something about the stillness in these photos made my chest feel tight. I didn’t realize I had moved so close to Elliot until I felt the back of his hand brush mine.
He didn’t move it away.
We didn’t talk for a while. Just walked the gallery slowly, lingering, letting it soak in.
At one point I turned to him, about to say something dumb and defensive, like “I’m not usually into art,” but he was already watching me, head slightly tilted, like he saw more in me than I knew how to give.
“Want to come by the studio?” he asked after a beat. “It’s a short walk. We can sit. Drink something. Just... come.”
Again, that voice. That calm invitation. No pressure. No need to impress.
I said yes.
_____
Elliot’s loft hadn’t changed. Still tucked above the bakery, still hushed in that way that made you speak softer without meaning to. The same soft light fell through the high windows, painting golden streaks on the pinewood floors. The same worn bookshelves leaned against the wall like they’d been resting there for years. And that same faint scent of coffee, varnish, something warm and expensive floated in the air like memory.
But this time, it felt different.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was electric. Loaded.
He flicked the needle on the record player. Something slow and instrumental spun to life, soft piano beneath a grainy vinyl crackle. He didn’t ask if I wanted to sit. I just did. The couch creaked familiarly beneath me. I remembered how we sat here before, how close we’d gotten, how I’d left with my lips still tingling from that kiss.
Elliot poured wine into two glasses and crossed the room. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His white shirt was slightly wrinkled, tucked messily into his pants, the top two buttons undone like he hadn’t even thought about it. He handed me the glass and sat beside me, close, but not touching.
I took a sip I didn’t need. My heart was already fluttering.
“So,” he said, looking at me with that easy, half-curious smile. “Was lunch what you expected?”
“Better,” I said. And I meant it.
He smiled like that meant something. His eyes didn’t move away. And neither did mine.
We didn’t speak. Not right away. There wasn’t a need.
I could smell him from here. Something clean and warm. Subtle cologne and coffee and whatever lingered on his white shirt from the walk. I leaned a little closer. Not enough to make a move. Just enough to feel the heat where his knee almost brushed mine.
He noticed.
His voice dropped lower. “You keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to kiss me.”
I swallowed. “Maybe I am.”
His smile didn’t falter. “Then don’t wait.”
I leaned in slowly, heart pounding louder than the music. Our faces hovered close, breath mingling. His hand found my jaw just before our lips met. Soft. Sure. His thumb brushed my cheek as he pulled me in.
The kiss was slow. Intoxicating. It didn’t explode...it melted. Like honey. Like time forgot how to move.
His lips tasted like wine and sugar. His breath was warm against mine. I could feel the curve of his smile even while we kissed, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Like he’d been thinking about this too.
When we pulled apart, he stayed close. Forehead almost against mine.
“Mon cœur,” he whispered, the words like silk.
I closed my eyes, breathing him in. Drowning a little. Wanting more.
Elliot's lips tasted like wine and sugar. His breath was warm against mine. I could feel the curve of his smile even while we kissed, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Like he’d been thinking about this too.
When we pulled apart, he stayed close. Forehead almost against mine.
“Mon cœur,” he whispered, the words like silk.
I closed my eyes, breathing him in. Drowning a little. Wanting more.
He brushed a hand over my cheek and stood. Slowly, he reached for my hand, his fingers gentle, curling around mine.
“Come here,” he murmured.
He led me toward the bed. The sheets were a pale gray, soft and inviting, rumpled just slightly from where he’d been sitting earlier. The windows spilled amber light across the room, and the air felt warmer, heavier. Like the space had changed, grown quieter, more charged.
We didn’t say anything. He kissed me again, standing at the edge of the bed. His hands slid beneath the hem of my shirt, palms warm against my skin, and I lifted my arms to let him pull it off. He smiled, like he liked what he saw, but didn’t feel the need to say it. His mouth was on my shoulder next, and then my collarbone, trailing kisses down the side of my neck that made me inhale sharply.
It was different.
Dylan kissed like he was trying to stake a claim. Elliot kissed like he was trying to show me something. Something soft and honest.
He eased me backward until my knees hit the bed. I sat. He followed, kissing me again, hands sliding over my thighs. His fingers dipped into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them down, slow, deliberate. I kicked them off without thinking. I was already hard. He glanced down and smiled again. Not smug. Just… happy.
“Lie back,” he said softly.
I did.
He moved between my legs, kissing the inside of my thigh. His hands gripped the backs of my knees as he opened me up, mouth hovering.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the night you stayed,” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin.
“So have I,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He kissed the crease where my thigh met my hip, then licked a slow line across my shaft, up to the head. I groaned, biting my lip. His mouth was warm, careful, reverent. He didn’t rush. He sucked me slowly, stroking with one hand, the other still pressed gently against my hip for support.
I arched into it. My breath stuttered.
He kept going, taking my cock deeper into his mouth. Every movement purposeful. Every lick and hum like a slow unraveling.
"Baby, you taste so good", Elliot moaned with my dick in his mouth.
When I moaned, he smiled against me. His hands were steady. He didn’t need to pin me down, he held me in place with attention alone. And then he pulled back, just enough to lift my legs, bending them gently. His mouth moved lower towards my ass.
“Can I?” he asked.
I nodded, already breathless.
He licked my hole once, slow and deep, and I gasped, hips twitching. His tongue was smooth, wet, exploring every inch of my butt. It wasn’t desperate or animal like Dylan had been. It was sensual. Focused. He moaned softly as he licked me open, like he enjoyed every second. Like he needed to taste me properly.
“My love,” he murmured, pausing, lips just hovering over me. “Can I please…?”
Before he could finish, I bit my lip and whispered, “Yes. Please.”
He kissed me once more, right there, before pulling away just long enough to reach into the drawer beside the bed. I heard the condom wrapper, the sound of slick fingers. I watched him roll it on his hard cock, his expression concentrated, tender. His cock was hard, curved, and thick, but the way he moved, like he wanted me to feel safe, feel everything...kept me grounded.
He climbed over me slowly, kissing my chest, my neck, my mouth.
Then I felt him. The head of his cock, pressing, teasing around my hole.
He looked down at me, voice soft. “My love, is this okay?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want you.”
He pushed his cock in carefully. A slow, smooth stretch. My hands gripped his arms, my breath hitching as he filled me inch by inch.
“Are you feeling good?” he asked, voice tight.
“Mmhmm,” I breathed. “So good.”
He began to move. Long, deep strokes. His hips rolled with a rhythm that felt like music. Like waves. He kissed me again, his mouth never far from mine.
His fingers laced with mine. His forehead pressed to mine. “Can I go harder?” he asked, kissing my cheek, my temple, the corner of my mouth.
“Yes. Fuck me, Elliot. Fuck me harder”
He picked up pace, thrusting harder, still steady. His body rocked against mine, chest to chest, legs tangled. His mouth found my jaw, my throat, my lips again. His moans were low and shaky. He kept whispering to me in between.
“You feel so good.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“I want this. I want you.”
And I wanted him. I wanted to hold onto that feeling. I wrapped my legs around his waist and let him take me, let him fill me, let him love me in a way that didn’t feel dirty or forbidden.
It felt safe.
He was careful even in the rougher moments, his hand always on my cheek, or stroking my side, like he needed to be sure I was still there with him.
“Troy,” Elliot groaned, his hips beginning to stutter. “Mon amour… I might cum in you if I keep going.”
Even though I was fully in the moment; my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock stroking deep, fast, and deliberate, the rhythm of his body sending sparks through every nerve...something about those words hit different.
His cock felt so good inside me. The way he moved, the way he held me, kissed me, whispered to me. It was slow and intimate and safe. But the moment he said he might cum in my hole, something shifted. I don’t know what came over me. It was like muscle memory, like something wired deeper than I understood. My mind flashed to Dylan. How he was the only guy I’d ever let finish inside my ass. The only one who ever claimed me like that. No condom. No hesitation. Just pure, possessive heat. I could still hear his voice in my head, rough and sure; "this hole belongs to me, spaghetti noodle".
Even though Elliot wasn’t like that; he was careful, tender, full of reverence instead of dominance...something inside me reacted.
I pulled him closer and said, before I could even think about it, “I want you to cum in my mouth.”
The words just… slipped out. Honest. Unfiltered.
And maybe a little fucked up.
But I meant it. Because no matter how much Elliot made me feel held, known, seen… a part of me was still wrapped around the memory of Dylan
He just slowly pulled out of me, his breath uneven, sweat glistening along his collarbone. Then, with this quiet, reverent kind of care, he shifted forward, his knees on either side of my chest, straddling me with that same calm gentleness he carried in everything he did.
“I hope I’m not too heavy,” he murmured, voice low, eyes flickering with that soft edge of concern.
“You’re not,” I whispered, already breathless.
He smiled faintly, then looked down between us, one hand wrapping around the base of his cock. I watched, dazed, as he guided himself toward my mouth...slow, unhurried. The head of his cock brushed my bottom lip, already leaking, hot and twitching. I opened without hesitation. His other hand reached behind him, fingers curling around my shaft. I gasped as he touched me; firm, slow strokes that mirrored the way he fed himself to me, inch by inch.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was this quiet, intimate offering. Like he wanted to be close, fully, in every way he could.
I sucked him deeper just as his cock pulsed on my tongue; thick, warm release hitting the back of my throat. His hips jerked forward, stifling a moan, and his hand on my cock tightened slightly, the rhythm syncing perfectly with the wave breaking through my body. My orgasm hit fast...sharp, overwhelming. I came across his hand, across his thigh, a little splattering up over his ass. Messy. Close. Intimate.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
He just exhaled shakily and looked down at me, eyes dark with tenderness. One after the other. “Fuck,” he whispered, fingers tightening in my hair.
He leaned down, kissed me again, gently, still catching his breath.
Then he smiled. “I’ll hit the shower, my love.”
I nodded, heart racing. He padded into the bathroom, humming under his breath. I sat on the edge of the bed, sweaty and spent. It wasn’t post-nut clarity. It wasn’t regret. But it was something.
I looked around the room. At the books. The art. The softness of his sheets. I thought about how he asked me, over and over, if I was okay. If it felt good.
I thought about Dylan. Again.
Why was I thinking about Dylan?
He had never called me "my love." He never asked how I was feeling. He never kissed me like that. But somehow, it was still him I missed. And I hated myself a little for it.
I pulled on my clothes quietly. My shirt still smelled like wine and Elliot’s cologne.
I grabbed a nearby notepad. Wrote a message.
Hey, sorry... my sister just called. I have to run. Everything’s okay, I promise.
I left it on the counter. Heard the water running.
And then I walked out the door.
I told myself I was going home. But my feet moved on their own. Down the street. Around the corner. Up the stairs. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of Dylan’s apartment.
My hand hovered.
And then I knocked.
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