Chapter 1: You're the Top
It was 8:30 on a Friday morning in mid-spring, the pink flowering cherry trees were blooming just outside the window, and Jon was already trapped.
He stood at his makeshift standing desk—which was actually just his laptop perched on top of his and Rob’s bedroom dresser—staring at a blinking cursor.
He had already gone for a run in the dark and showered, leaving him in an outfit that perfectly represented the bifurcation of his life: a crisp, Oxford-blue button-down shirt for meetings on Zoom, paired with comfortable, washed-cotton lounge shorts.
I have the best job in the world, Jon muttered to the empty room. He took a breath, adjusted his posture, and whispered it again. I have the best job in the world.
His career path was, by any metric, singularly quirky. He had scant credentials for his current role, having earned his position as head of strategy for an innovative charitable foundation by being relentlessly clever and possessing an uncanny sense of exactly when to strike.
Growing up, the only professionals he knew were the ones on television. On TV, a problem was presented, everyone shared a laugh every few minutes, the problem was solved in half an hour, and the next day it would happen all over again.
Real strategy work, Jon had learned, involved a lot more agonizing over endless deliverables in your own bedroom on a newly negotiated work-from-home day.
Sometimes, usually when the Slack notifications started chiming in rapid succession, Jon had the distinct, secret urge to just walk out the front door, get on a bus, and get a job as a barista in some other city.
The door creaked open, vaporizing his escape plan.
"Fuel for the engine of philanthropy," Rob announced.
Rob strolled in, unhurried. Having worked from home for a few years, Rob had long ago mastered the art of existing in his own house—though Jon would point out it was just his nature.
He was carrying two mugs of coffee and wearing a pair of boxer briefs that showed off his dusky-haired legs, along with a long-sleeved race T-shirt that belonged to Jon. When Jon wore the shirt, he swam in it. On Rob, it pulled snug across the shoulders. The way the cotton stretched tightly over his pecs was a clear signal that it had been a chest day.
Jon stared at the shirt, momentarily losing his train of thought. He accepted the coffee blindly. "We're ten days late on the trans health grant rollout," he finally muttered, defaulting to responsibility because it was safer than looking at his husband's thighs.
Rob set his own mug down next to the laptop. "Well guess what. We are also ten days late with each other."
Jon stopped, blinking. "What?"
"Ten days," Rob repeated, leaning casually against the dresser. "I’ve been keeping track. It's been a week and a half of ships passing in the night. We've become excellent friends with benefits, without the benefits."
Jon blew out. "I have a deliverables memo and—"
"I have a business proposal," Rob cut him off smoothly.
He stepped closer, bringing the scent of fresh coffee and the musk of his own skin. He rested a hand directly over Jon's on the computer mouse, stopping his scrolling. He clicked over to Jon's calendar.
"It's Friday," Rob noted, iin a low rumbling tone. "The kids are at school. I'm free until one." He brought the cursor to a solid block of color on the calendar. "You have two hours of 'focused time.' No one expects you to take calls."
Jon felt his resolve violently twitch as Rob leaned in, the rough bristle of his chin grazing Jon’s ear. Rob knew exactly what he was doing.
"Mid-morning sex. At ten," Rob murmured against his temple. "Then we go out for lunch. Real lunch. Just us. What do we have to do to make it happen?"
Jon resisted. He truly tried. But even id he could occasionally resist his husband, he could never, ever resist a puzzle.
Just as the gears in Jon’s head shifted from foundation strategy to domestic logistics, Rob went in for the kill. In his deep, entirely off-key voice, started to sing.
"You're the top... you're the Colosseum..."
Jon exhaled. It was the music Rob had used to seduce him years ago. But more importantly, the implication was clear. Rob wanted Jon to top. And he was deploying Cole Porter to get it.
Jon looked out the window. A gust of wind sent the first cherry blossoms drifting down like pink snow against the glass. He set his coffee down and moved into action, rattling off the landmines.
"Okay. Clare has to get from school to the clinic," Jon said, first thing first. "If you take her, I can stay here and finish this memo."
"Can't," Rob said easily, leaning against the dresser. "I'll be busy."
Jon blinked. "Doing what?"
"Cleaning out," Rob answered simply.
Jon paused. "Right," he said, clearing his throat and suddenly feeling very warm. "Right. I'll take her. I only have to sign her in. She can Uber back to campus. If I leave right now, I can get her there and be back by ten. Neal has a crew day, so she’s accounted for." Jon paused, thinking through the unknowns. "Okay, I can push the deliverables memo until noon. But if Adam calls—"
"If Adam calls, it goes to voicemail."
"He's my boss, Rob. He's the CEO."
Rob was entirely undeterred. "Deal. Meeting at ten, right here, Strategic Genius. Don't be late."
To seal the deal, Rob grabbed the hem of the tight race shirt and pulled it over his head. His chest was pumped, the soft, downy hair running all the way down to his boxers. He tossed the shirt casually into the laundry basket, offered Jon a last, victorious smirk, and wandered off toward the bathroom. His off-key baritone trailed behind him.
"Baby, if I'm the bottom, you're the top...bop, be dah!"
Jon stood there, his comfortable shorts less comfortable as the sound of the shower roared to life.
He looked at the blinking cursor on his screen, then promptly closed the laptop. The grant rollout could wait.
Chapter 2: At Long Last Love
Jon grabbed his car keys off the entryway hook, the promise of ten o'clock sex and the lingering, off-key echo of Rob's rumbly singing buoying him out the front door.
He needed this errand with Clare to be a masterpiece of ruthless efficiency.
He stepped out into the crisp morning, still wearing his executive button down and his washed cotton lounge shorts. He slid into his bright orange hybrid—currently covered in a blanket of fallen pink cherry blossoms—and queued up his Cole Porter playlist on the dashboard screen.
Bobby Short’s bouncing piano intro to "At Long Last Love" filled the car. “Is it an earthquake or simply a shock…"
Jon rolled down all four windows, cranked the volume to a level that bordered on socially unacceptable for a residential neighborhood, and threw the car into reverse. He pulled out onto the street and sped down the street with a trail of pink petals blowing off the roof like a very gay ticker-tape parade.
He happily mumble-sang along. "Is it for all time? Or simply a lark? Is it a fancy, not worth dreaming of... Or is it at long last love?"
When he pulled into the high school drop-off lane, he felt lighter than he had all week. The morning air was sharp, the schedule was briefly manageable, and with Rob waiting at home, everything felt entirely possible.
Until Clare speed-walked to the car.
She wrenched the passenger door open, threw her backpack onto the floorboard with a dramatic thud, and hissed, "What is that... MUSIC? WHY IS IT SO LOUD?"
Jon reached over to the dial and slowly, deliberately turned the volume down to background level. He looked at her, his face a mask of paternal deadpan. "You know what's quiet? Walking."
To emphasize his point, he let the car roll forward a few inches and stopped again.
Clare slid her willowy frame into the seat, aggressively crossing her arms, radiating a dark, stormy crankiness that completely negated the cheerful cherry blossoms outside.
"You don't deserve Cole Porter," Jon informed her, checking his mirror and pulling away from the curb.
Some days, these moments with Clare were exactly like having a face-off with his own reflection. They shared the same stubborn energy, the same defensive sarcasm, the same inability to suffer fools.
They made it exactly two blocks before Jon saw it: her chin quivered.
It was a tiny, involuntary tremor, barely anything, but Jon recognized it instantly. It was his own telltale ugly-cry signal. She looked away, staring out the passenger window at the passing houses, and mumbled, barely audibly. “This is the worst day of my life.”
Everything else—the tightly managed schedule, the looming deliverables memo, and the impending ten o'clock deadline—instantly settled into the back seat. Jon reached across the center console and slid his hand between her leg and the seat and held it there.
"What's going on, Clare-bear?" he asked, his voice devoid of the teasing lilt from two minutes ago.
The dam broke. She turned to him, eyes wet with the suffering that only a high school student can genuinely feel. Max Wilch had asked her out by the lockers. And, without meaning to, without having any control over her own nervous system, she had just... panic-laughed in his face.
"I wanted to say yes!" she groaned, throwing her hands up. "But this laugh just came out! It was so loud! And he didn't even say anything funny! He just turned and walked away, and now he's telling everyone I'm the meanest girl in the world."
Jon gave her leg a reassuring squeeze. "First of all, Max is not telling 'everyone.' He doesn't know everyone. He's not even popular."
But, Jon thought with a sudden pang of empathy, the poor boy dared to try to breach Clare's cool retreats and got a laugh in the face for it.
It was a high school tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Jon glanced at the dashboard clock. It was ticking steadily forward. This was not going to be a quick, efficient drop-off.
He pulled into the clinic lot, shifted into park, and unbuckled his seatbelt so he could turn to face her fully. "Okay. Let's figure it out. How do we fix this?”
She looked at Jon as if he were insane.
“If it were me,” he offered, “I’d get in front of the narrative. I'd text him. Tell him exactly what you just told me."
"That I panic-laughed?" she asked, horrified.
"That you were caught off guard," Jon corrected smoothly, his strategic brain shifting from philanthropic grant rollouts to teenage crisis management.
They spent the next ten minutes workshopping and drafting the perfect, breezy-yet-apologetic text message, Jon acting as editor-in-chief. Hey, sorry about earlier was deemed too weak. You surprised me was better. I actually wanted to say yes was the terrifying vulnerability. So, yes. Definitely yes. was the confident, necessary closer.
Before she hit send, Jon tapped the top of her phone. "Make sure it's just to Max. The group chat embarrassment you can save for another day."
She took a deep breath, braced herself, and pressed send. Almost instantly, the rigid tension in her shoulders dropped an inch.
"Good job," Jon said softly. He ushered her inside the clinic, signed the clipboard at the front desk with a frantic, illegible scribble, kissed the top of her head, and sprinted back out to the car.
He slammed the driver's side door shut, chest heaving slightly, and checked the dashboard.
It was 10:01.
Right on cue, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, breathless.
It was a picture from Rob. A filthy thirst trap.
Rob was standing in their bathroom, grinning at the top of the frame. The tight race shirt had been pulled up and bunched under his arms—a testament to the fact that his husband was aging like an incredibly fine, seven workouts a week, hairy chested wine.
The dusky hair that started just below the collar trailed over a stomach that was a little thicker than it had been twenty-some years ago, but it was still flat. His boxers were pushed down just enough to expose the thick root of his cock, and lower still the muscular shape of his thighs.
Beneath all of that was a single word.
NOW.
Jon let out a strangled breath and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.
As he pulled out he was already racing three steps ahead, calculating the fastest route back to the craftsman house, mapping out exactly where he could safely cut corners, run a yellow light, and push the speed limit.
If he got pulled over, he already had his defense prepared. He imagined rolling down the window and looking the cop dead in the eye: Officer, I’ve got two teenagers, a hectic job, and I just received a hot-as-fuck thirst trap from my husband.
If worse came to worse, he figured he could just hand the cop the phone and let Rob's thighs do the talking. With evidence like that, he might even get a police escort with sirens blaring.
The day was already actively working against their carefully laid plan. But as he merged onto the main road, a small, involuntary twitch of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
He was thinking of Clare and Max Wilch. The absolute agony of a first crush, the terror of a missed connection, the sheer panic of wanting someone so badly you forgot how to be cool. It was a beautiful, chaotic thing.
He missed it terribly sometimes. But he wouldn’t go back if he could.
He reached out and tapped the console, bringing his Cole Porter playlist roaring back to life. He rolled the windows back down, letting the sweet spring air rush in as Bobby Short belted out the final verse.
"Is it a cocktail, this feeling of joy? Or is what I feel the real McCoy?"
Chapter 3: Let's Misbehave
Jon barely resisted doing forty in a twenty-five zone. He screeched the orange hybrid up to the curb at 10:12 AM.
Rob was waiting for him, pacing the small living room. Jon tossed his keys onto the entry table with a clatter and surged forward. Rob dropped his phone on the sofa and met him halfway, pulling him into a kiss with the heat that only delay can create. It was a greedy collision of mouths and hands.
Jon grinned against Rob’s mouth, pulling him backward toward the stairs. Once they were in motion, Jon unbuttoned the top two buttons of his work shirt, pulled it up over his head, and let it drop to the hardwood floor.
Rob caught him by his waist and jerked him back, pulling them together, crotch to crotch. They both thickened immediately, with just the layers of thin cotton between them. Jon jerked Rob's boxers down, and Rob fumbled with the button of Jon's shorts, dragging them down to his hips to press his own growing erection flush against Jon's.
They were mere seconds away from making it up the stairs when the front door clicked open and then slammed shut.
"DADS!"
They sprang apart like startled teenagers.
Neal ambled into the hallway, her blue-dyed hair slightly askew.
She stopped dead, eyebrows furrowing at the scene before her. Jon was entirely bare-chested, his eyes wide as he snatched his shirt from the floor and clamped it directly over his crotch. Rob stepped directly behind Jon, pulling the run shirt down to hide his own situation while discreetly hoisting up his boxers.
"What are you guys doing?" she asked, her voice dropping into deep teenage suspicion.
"Nothing," Rob answered.
“Laundry,” Jon corrected without missing a beat, holding his work shirt a little higher.
It was a well-worn excuse.
"What are you doing off campus?" Rob deflected.
"Juniors have off-campus privileges," Jon muttered.
Neal braced herself. "I'm so, so sorry. You know we have French class lunch Fridays? I signed up to bring coq au vin." She paused, her face scrunching in agony. "Today."
"What?" asked Rob, his romantic haze evaporating into thin air. "Today? When did you know about this?"
"Last week," Neal admitted, her cheeks flushing a deep, mottled red. "But someone reminded me in first period."
"I can't just... whip up coq au vin," Rob said, his eyes glazing over slightly as his brain clearly began calculating inventory and cooking times. "It's a braise. It takes hours. It requires pearl onions, burgundy, a whole chicken—It’s like 10:30."
"Dad, you're a chef," Neal pleaded, stepping forward and clasping her hands together. "Madame Dupont already thinks I don't care about European history. Please."
"Was a chef. I’m a consultant," Rob corrected, turning to Jon with a look of pure, unadulterated pleading. "I'm not supposed to have culinary emergencies."
Jon quickly yanked his shorts up, slipped his wrinkled dress shirt back on without bothering to button it, and settled onto a kitchen bar stool, completely resolved to where this was plainly heading. He offered his husband a teasing wince. "Better get consulting."
Rob answered with a heavy sigh.
As Rob turned to shuffle into the refrigerator, Jon rested his elbow on the cool marble counter as Neal folded herself against his side, twining her arm in his. Clare had favored Rob as a baby, but to make up for it the universe gave him Neal, who had always clung more to Jon, as if he might drift away if not tethered.
His phone, sitting on the granite, gave a soft ping every few minutes as another email loaded. Jon thumbed through the screen, staring at three new Slack notifications, but resisted the urge to reply. He anchored himself to Neal instead.
Rob commanded the kitchen. He rolled up his long sleeves to reveal defined forearms and went to war. A roasted chicken cooked earlier for lunch salads was repurposed. A mesh bag was sliced open with a paring knife, sending tiny new potatoes rolling across the counter.
"Sous chef," Rob barked, pointing the knife at Neal. "I need these washed."
She joined him at the sink, washing and drying the potatoes. She was tentative at first, but quickly adapted, her own athletic grace serving as a perfect echo of Rob's. Jon loved to see them like that, moving in sync, the undeniable traces of Rob showing in her focus.
And then there was Rob himself. Chopping vegetables with terrifying professional speed, his bare forearms flexing with every strike of the blade against the cutting board. His focused hustle was pure, distilled sex appeal—competent, confident, and utterly irresistible.
Jon couldn't send a thirst trap now, not with their daughter standing three feet away, but he could send another coded message—one that would go right over Neal's head, easily mistaken for just another old show tune.
"We're all alone, no chaperone, can get our number..." Jon breathed, his voice sing-songy and deliberately low.
Rob stopped chopping as if he'd heard his most secret name said aloud. His gray eyes flicked up to Jon, dark and promising, and then snapped back to his cutting. But his lips quirked into a sharp half-smile. Message received.
The steam from the hastily assembled braise curled Neal's blue hair and dampened Rob's tight run shirt, the material clinging stubbornly to his torso. Rob wiped the back of his hand over his brow, pushing through his dusky hair, the first dusting of silver catching the bright kitchen light. The smell of reducing wine and searing chicken fat began to fill the room.
"They say that spring means just one little thing to little lovebirds, we're not above birds..." Jon resumed, leaning his chin on his hand.
Rob blushed, reaching out to place a steadying hand over Neal's as she frantically stirred the pot. "Not helping, Jon."
Jon smiled, his eyes tracking the tight line of Rob's shoulders, and silently mouthed the final words to his husband: Let's misbehave.
At 11:05 AM, Rob abruptly turned off the burners. He grabbed a wooden spoon, scooped a taste for himself, and offered the other side to Neal. They smacked their lips, analyzing the flavor profile in total unison.
"Not the real McCoy," Rob conceded, reaching for a ceramic tray, "but it'll do."
As he packaged the improvised meal into the tray and secured it in a thermal carry case in absolute record time, Neal turned to Jon.
"Papa? Can you drive me?"
Jon instinctively rose up to put sneakers on, but he caught Rob's eye. They shared a quick back-and-forth without a single word spoken.
They turned to Neal with a clear, unified veto: "Uber."
Neal began to speak, opening her mouth to argue, but caught the finality in their expressions and let her shoulders drop instead. "Okay. Sorry."
"Don't say 'sorry,'" Jon reminded her gently, already pulling up the app and ordering her car. "Say 'thanks for understanding.'"
She paused, swallowing her teenage instincts, and forced the words out. "Thank you for understanding."
"Car's three minutes away. Wait on the porch," Jon ordered.
She picked up the thermal pack and pulled her own phone out.
The heavy door slammed shut behind her.
Rob turned away from the stove, wiping his slick hands on a dish towel. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat, but triumphant. He looked at Jon.
"Wait for the Uber to leave," Jon said, holding his phone up to watch the little digital car icon on the map. It felt like the longest sixty seconds of the month. Finally, the icon crawled down the street. "Clear."
Rob dropped the towel onto the island. "My consulting fee, Strategic Genius: Bed. Now."
Jon hummed the final verse as they practically dragged up the stairs, Rob's hands already reaching up under Jon's unbuttoned shirt.
"They say that bears have love affairs, and even camels, we're merely mammals... Let's misbehave."
Chapter 4: Night and Day
Rob grabbed Jon by the waist, fingers digging into the lean muscle of his torso as he walked him backward toward the bed.
Suddenly, the phone in Jon's hand vibrated, Adam's custom ringtone piercing the quiet.
Rob didn't even hesitate. He snatched the device straight out of Jon's grip and chucked it across the room, where it landed with a muffled thud in the laundry basket.
He bent his head and pressed open-mouthed kisses down Jon’s chest, following the dark arrow of hair that ran from his sternum to his flat stomach. Jon’s breath hitched when Rob’s stubble scraped lightly over a nipple.
Rob dropped to his knees at the edge of the mattress. Jon noticed Rob had covered it with a thick, dark blanket—the one the kids wouldn’t think anything of—and set out towels.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Jon’s shorts and briefs, and yanked them down in one smooth motion. Jon’s cock sprang free, already hard. Rob didn’t tease. He just opened his mouth and took him straight to the root in one wet, practiced glide.
“Fuck—” Jon’s head tipped back. The heat was immediate and overwhelming, Rob’s tongue pressing flat along the underside as he swallowed around him.
Wet sounds filled the quiet room—the soft, rhythmic suction, the occasional gluck when Rob took him a little too deep and had to pull back. One of Jon’s hands found the back of Rob’s head, fingers in the short hair, holding on while Rob worked him with the easy confidence of knowing exactly what Jon liked.
Rob pulled off with a wet release, lips glossy, a thin string of spit hanging that he caught up with his tongue. He looked up, gray eyes dark with intent, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Been thinking about this all morning,” he said, voice rough. Then he stood, grabbed Jon by the back of the neck, and kissed him hard—deep and messy, letting Jon taste himself on Rob’s tongue.
They didn’t need words after that. Everything was in the way their bodies moved: Jon shoving at Rob’s boxers until they hit the floor, Rob kicking them away. Jon’s shirt fell to the floor without a thought.
They stood there, grinding together, cocks sliding against each other. Precum smeared between their bellies. Jon’s hands roamed the broad planes of Rob’s back, down to the firm swell of his ass, squeezing.
Rob broke the kiss just long enough to give Jon a smirk.
He turned and crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees. He dropped his chest to the pillows, reached back with both hands, and spread himself open—an invitation so blatant it made Jon’s cock twitch hard against his stomach.
Jon climbed up behind him, settling between Rob’s spread thighs. He ran both palms over the thick, hairy muscle of Rob’s ass, thumbs pulling the cheeks wider. The sight made his mouth water: the dusky fur, the tight pucker, the swing of Rob’s balls between his legs. He leaned in and dragged his tongue in a long wet stripe from the base of Rob’s balls all the way up to his hole.
Rob exhaled into the pillow.
Jon did it again. And again. He licked broad and flat, then pointed his tongue and pushed, working the tight ring. The taste was clean, but underneath it was something musky. The real, lived-in taste of his husband’s body. He spit directly onto Rob’s hole and watched it clench, then dove back in, licking the spit in, getting him sloppy and open.
He buried his face deeper, tongue-fucking him in slow, wet strokes, one hand reaching between Rob’s legs to cup and roll his balls.
“Jesus, Jon—” Rob chuckled. His hips rolled back, pushing his ass harder against Jon’s mouth. “You’re gonna make me lose it before you even get in me.”
Jon pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing wet skin. “Hold that thought.”
He sat back on his heels. His own cock was leaking steadily. He wiped his mouth with his knuckles and refocused. He reached for the lube in the top drawer of the nightstand, identifying it by feel. He squeezed some out, slicking two fingers.
The first push inside was easy. Rob was relaxed and ready, the muscle yielding almost immediately.
“You really did get ready,” Jon said, a little breathless, working his fingers deeper, crooking them to find that spot that made Rob’s back arch.
Rob turned his face to the side, smirking even as his breath caught. “Told you so. Now stop talking and fuck me.”
Jon pulled his fingers free, wiping them off on a towel. His eyes caught the glowing red numbers of Rob's alarm clock.
11:26.
An uninvited voice drifted into his brain. "The tick... tick... tock... of the clock..."
Not now, Cole Porter, Jon thought, shoving the melody out of his head.
He tipped the lube, slicked his cock till it was shiny and wet and lined up. He rubbed the head against Rob’s hole, smearing it with precum. He let the blunt pressure tease them both for a few seconds before he pushed.
The head pressed in. Then the rest of him sank deep in one long, smooth thrust.
They both groaned—Rob’s a low, satisfied sound, Jon’s sharper, almost overwhelmed by the tight, clutching heat that welcomed him home.
“Fuck, Jon…” Rob sighed, adjusting the stretch. “You feel so fucking good.”
Jon’s hands settled on Rob’s hips. He started to move—long, deep strokes at first, savoring the drag, the way Rob’s body opened for him and then squeezed on every pull.
He could do it. He could put aside all the strategy, just for the moment, just tending to his husband's body. Let the main thing be the main thing.
He moved faster, harder. The room filled with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed, Rob’s low grunts every time Jon bottomed out.
Jon shifted his angle slightly, dropping his hips, and Rob’s whole body jolted.
“There—” Rob gasped. “Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”
Jon didn’t. He fucked harder, the pace turning steady and relentless. Sweat gathered at the small of his back and ran down his chest. He could feel every flex of Rob’s back under his hands, could see the shift of muscle as Rob pushed back to meet every thrust.
There was no time to flip—to shift Rob onto his side, onto his back.
But Jon could feel it building in both of them. Rob’s hole was fluttering around him, getting tighter, his breathing going ragged. He could get them both off.
Jon dropped his weight forward, chest to Rob’s sweat streaked back.
One of his arms wrapped over Rob’s neck and shoulder. His hand found the swell of Rob’s pec, covered in that soft, dark hair. His thumb brushed over the nipple. He grabbed the chest muscle, squeezing. The sensation shot straight through him like lightning. It always did. That particular give of Rob’s chest under his palm, the way it flexed and yielded at the same time, was Jon’s oldest, most reliable trigger.
“God, these fucking tits,” Jon breathed, voice gone rough. He kneaded harder, pinching the nipple just enough to make Rob shove back harder onto his cock. “You know what that does to me.”
Rob’s answering laugh was breathless. “Yeah. I know. That’s what they’re there for.”
Jon’s rhythm faltered for a second, at the thought of Rob’s chest day. Doing it for him. It made him pulse harder in Rob.
Then he surged. He fucked deeper, faster, the wet slap of his hips against Rob’s ass getting louder. Rob reached down between his own legs and started stroking himself in short, urgent pulls, the head of his cock brushing the sheets with every forward rock of his body.
“Come on,” Jon growled against the back of Rob’s neck. “Give it to me. Want to feel you cum.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Rob’s fist moved faster. His body went rigid and a broken, punched-out sound left his throat. Thick pulses of cum spilled out over the blur of his fist and onto the sheets beneath him. His hole clamping down hard around Jon in rhythmic, milking squeezes.
The feeling of it—the way Rob’s body seized around him, the pec in his grasp, the croak of his husband’s throat, tipped Jon over the edge a heartbeat later. He buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a long, tortured gasp, pulsing hard inside his husband, filling him in helpless spurts. His grip on Rob’s chest tightened and then released.
Jon stayed draped over Rob’s back, still buried inside him, both of them shaking with aftershocks. The only sounds in the small room were their harsh breathing and the faint, wet click of Jon’s cock shifting slightly as he softened.
Eventually Jon pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin between Rob’s shoulder blades. He carefully pulled out, both of them wincing at the drag, and dropped to the bed. Rob turned with him, and they ended up face to face, ankles tangled.
Rob’s fingers reached out to thumb lazy patterns under Jon’s ear. Jon raised a hand to Rob’s chest where he could feel his heart hammering under his palm, strong and steady.
Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom tom, Jon heard the line from the song drifting up from somewhere deep in his chest.
The number on Rob’s alarm clock flipped.
11:46.
Chapter 5: Let's Do It, Let's Fall in Love
The cool mid-spring air drifting through the partially open bedroom window did little to clear the scent of sweat and cum that hung in the room. Rob shifted on the mattress and pressed a firm kiss to Jon’s shoulder—the exact same steadying gesture he had made a thousand times before.
The bed was a mess, but for the moment, it was a perfect oasis.
Jon let his eyes drift shut, deep in the satisfied warmth. Outside the window, a flurry of cherry blossoms swirling past the glass. Pink snow.
Which meant it was the end of the fiscal quarter.
Jon forced his eyes fully open. His gaze darted across the room to the laundry basket, where his discarded phone was currently buried in undone laundry.
Just call Adam really quick, Jon's brain whispered, trying to negotiate. Find out what he needs. Just so he knows I'm not slacking.
But if he called Adam, Adam would inevitably ask about the deliverables memo. And if Adam asked about the memo, Jon would have to explain the delay on the grant rollout. And if they talked about the rollout, they would need to schedule a follow-up. And... and... and...
The spiral tightened around his throat. The adrenaline, which had so beautifully receded just moments ago, came rushing back in a cold, prickling wave, leaving behind the stark, ticking reality of the afternoon.
The oasis receded.
Jon abruptly pulled himself out of Rob’s arms, the crushing weight of his schedule slamming back into his chest.
“I have to get up,” Jon muttered, scrambling off the bed.
They both desperately needed a second shower.
Jon darted into the bathroom. He turned on the sink to splash water on his dick. “Fuck.. fuck...” he whispered, soaped it quickly, calculating how long it would take to draft the memo if he just got to it.
He rinsed his dick off, splashed his face and dried both with a handtowel.
A quick look in the mirror. His face looked slack, missing the tension that let the world know how seriously he was taking this inside. Slack like a slacking slacker.
He marched back into the bedroom, pulling on a fresh pair of briefs, and reached into the laundry basket in the corner. He fished out his discarded phone. The screen lit up instantly.
One new voicemail from Adam. Twenty-one new emails.
“Jon,” Rob said, rising up on one elbow in the bed.
“I have to go, Rob,” Jon said, his voice tightening with rising panic as he scrolled through the notifications. He grabbed a fresh button-down from the closet. “We can just eat lunch here.”
Then he remembered—the chicken was gone, sacrificed to Neal’s French Friday lunch.
“We can order DoorDash. But I have to work, I—”
“Jon.”
“I have people waiting on me. You don’t know—”
Rob pushed himself up and out of the bed. Not a smooth leap like he would have done once. He was a fit man, but he wasn’t twenty.
He reached for a towel and started wiping himself down—armpits, crotch and then running it through his glutes. The muscles in his sturdy legs and thick forearms worked. The downy hair on his chest and belly was still slick and smeared with the physical evidence of what they had just done, especially lower down around his pubes, but he made no rush to hide or clean it.
“I know you need to eat,” Rob said firmly, throwing the towel to the laundry basket without looking. “You need a real lunch, and you need to step away from your phone.”
Jon froze, between the competing demands of the glowing screen and his husband.
For a brief moment he flashed back to the time before. Before the demands of the foundation. Before the beautiful, chaotic responsibility of Clare and Neal. Before the house.
To his twenties, when Rob first played Louis Armstrong for him on a CD. The deep gravelly, one of a kind voice. “That’s Satchmo,” Rob had said, grinning,
And, then, distantly, before Rob.
And even more distantly, the time before the knowledge of obligation itself. When the only person he had to worry about was himself. The time before time.
The urge to flee, to just walk out the front door and keep walking, flared in his chest.
Without thinking, the exhaustion and the yearning spilled out of him.
“Honestly...” he confessed. “If some guy would sing ‘Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love’ to me... just like Louis Armstrong... just exactly that way... I’d leave everything.”
The way Armstrong did it wasn’t a bouncy, theatrical showtune. He knew what it was about, and delivered it painfully slowly, with Satchmo’s gravelly drawl. It was sex. It was pure, unadulterated seduction.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. I just mean—”
Rob looked at Jon, standing half-dressed and overwhelmed in the middle of their bedroom.
Slowly, he squared his broad shoulders and grounded himself. He tucked his chin deep into his neck, like a frog, screwed his face up into an expression of intense concentration, and opened his mouth.
“Cold Cape… Cod… clams... ’gainst their wish... do it,” Rob sang.
It was an exaggerated Louis Armstrong impression, drawing out every note. It was completely ridiculous. It was terrible. But it was also hopelessly earnest.
Rob took a slow step forward, looking Jon dead in the eye, fully committing to the bit. “Even lazy... jellyfish do it. Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”
He put his hands out, as if to say That’s what I got.
And then he waited.
Jon looked at his sturdy, half-naked, ridiculous husband. The real McCoy.
He pulled his quivering chin into shape and let his hands drop to his sides. A grin tugged at his mouth.
“Okay, Satchmo,” Jon said, tossing his phone back onto the nightstand. “Let’s get some pho.”
END
Thank you for reading The Real McCoy.
If you’d like to spend more time with Jon and Rob, check out A Charmed Life.
Cole Porter songs in this story include: You're the Top, At Long Last Love, Let's Misbehave, Night and Day and Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love).
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