January Thaw Read online

  He coughs, lifts himself up, and tries again, missing Peter’s wilting cock twice. He’s about to call it when Peter’s hand releases his hair and grabs him under the arm pit, holding him steadier than he could hold himself. Peter’s other hand settles at the side of his head, still tugging his hair.

  Peter chuckles. “Shh. I gotcha.”

  Thatcher smiles in relief and Peter sets his cock to the smile, raising an eyebrow. Thatcher licks his lips and nods. Peter moves inward fast. Thatcher gasps in surprise as the slight tang of precome spreads through his mouth. He hurries to tuck his lips around his teeth and flatten his tongue.

  They’ve never done anything like quite like this before. Thatcher, after some practice, had absolutely no problem getting Peter off, but he still has trouble taking him too deep. Which is why blow jobs are still one of the things they do together where Thatcher feels like he needs more control and Peter always gives it too him.

  It’s intimidating to suddenly realize how little movement he has available to him, and that if he’s going to give Peter what he promised, Peter’s going to have to take it from him.

  Thatcher takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, concentrating on the steady movement of the head of Peter’s cock through his lips and over his tongue. He opens his throat more. Peter moves slowly back into his mouth.

  A tremble goes through Thatcher and it’s not until he can’t steady it that he realizes it’s not coming from him. It’s Peter, and he can feel the shivering through their physical connection in a way that is actually weird. His boyfriend taps his thumb against his cheek and thrusts back and forth again.

  “Thatch. Thatch, look at me.”

  Thatcher leans back a little, trusting Peter to take his weight, and opens his eyes.

  The first arresting thing is Peter. How wide his eyes are, and the way he is staring so intently at Thatcher while they do this. The way he bites his lip as he moves forward into Thatcher’s mouth again, and stops shy of where it would have been too much for Thatcher to take in. The second thing is how strange everything outside of them suddenly feels. The air is still cold, but Thatcher feels like the wind isn’t touching him anymore. The whitish blue light of the full moon is giving everything a sort of ethereal bluish glue better suited to declaring destinies against impressive orchestration than to the sound of two confused boys in love, and the only sound in the air a combination of spit and skin.

  Peter disentangles his hand from Thatcher’s hair and cups his cheek as he moves with restraint and awareness into Thatcher’s mouth.

  He wants Peter to come in his mouth. He wants to watch as Peter make himself come between Thatcher’s lips. He brings his tongue back into play, licking around Peter’s ridge and over the head of his boyfriend’s cock. He waits until Peter moves in deep then hollows his cheeks, and when Peter lets out a quickly stifled groan Thatcher does it again, then again.

  “You’re mine,” Peter says again, petting Thatcher’s cheek. It isn’t gruff or possessive this time. There is no edge. He almost sounds defensive.

  Thatcher wishes he could nod or reply, but he’s too full of Peter like this. Peter’s thighs are shaking under Thatcher’s fists, he’s holding back because Thatcher’s never let Peter come in his throat before. Thatcher knows he’s going to choke and he doesn’t care. He also knows Peter’s not going to be able to hold himself back much longer. Peter whines again. Thatcher sucks gently and leans forward, hoping Peter gets the hint.

  He does. He blows down Thatcher’s throat with a growl. Thatcher, as expected, chokes at the sudden wash of fluid and pulls away, trying to swallow what he can and cough up what he can’t while his eyes water. Peter ruffles Thatcher’s hair, zips himself back up, and squats down next to him, kissing his temple and rubbing his back.

  “Sorry, baby,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  Thatcher shakes his head, but is still coughing too much to protest that he wanted to do it.

  “Thatcher?”

  A different type of chill cuts through Thatcher. That was Ethan’s voice. His coughing fit starts up all over again. Peter is still rubbing his back, but he’s suddenly at Thatcher’s side instead of in front of him and he’s edged away. The cold air knifes between them.

  “Thatcher, you okay?” Ethan calls out.

  Thatcher sucks in a breath, and this time it reaches his lungs. Ethan hadn’t seen. If he had he would be demanding “What are you doing?”. He came so close to finding out in the worst way possible, but he hadn’t.

  Thatcher fights down the unnecessary panic, swallows the come still sticking in his throat and realizes, for the first time, how awful it would be for Ethan to find out without Thatcher telling him. Not only because Thatcher’s not ready for anything to change, but because of how hurt Ethan would be that Thatcher didn’t think he could say anything.

  Peter pats Thatcher’s shoulders gently. “He got sick,” Peter calls to Ethan. “It’s all that sugary punch shit. Hard to tell how much alcohol is in it. I told Lacey she shouldn’t make it if she was going to have freshman here. They always puke.”

  Thatcher feels bad about it, but Peter lying for him and coming up with such a convincing lie, makes him feel grateful, and relaxed, and forgiven.

  “I’m gonna take him back to the dorms. After you’ve thrown up, it’s not a party anymore.” Peter’s palm smoothes between his shoulders again, and Thatcher decides that he’s okay with letting Peter deal with this. That’s one of many things he loves about Peter. Peter makes him feel taken care of like no one has in his entire life.

  “Oh. Alright.” He can hear the doubt in Ethan’s voice, but it’s a normal sort of doubt. It’s okay. “Thatcher, you want me to get you some water?”

  Thatcher decides to play into the lie Peter’s giving him.

  “Nah. I’ll drink sum water a’ home,” he replies, sound much drunker than he is and a little drunker than he needs to. Peter helps him up to his feet and he sputters a little bit more at the feeling still tickling his throat. “See you at home?”

  Ethan nods, looking concerned, but, thankfully, not suspicious. “Yeah, man. I’ll see you at home. Peter, you’re gonna watch him right?”

  “No worries, man. I got this. You and your girlfriend just have a good time.”

  Ethan pats Thatcher’s arm as Peter and Thatcher walk past him, through the back yard to the alley. Out of the corner of his eye, Thatcher can see Ethan and Charlotte talk together for a moment then head back inside. They didn’t wear their coats outside either.

  He sags into Peter once they’ve passed a couple garages and they both know for sure they are out of sight.

  “Thank you,” Thatcher says. “For lying to Ethan. I know you hate doing that.”

  “He doesn’t need to find out like that.” Peter kisses his temple. “No one needs to find out until you’re ready. I’m not thrilled about it, but I definitely mean it. No one finds out until you say the word.” He squeezes Thatcher’s hand and tugs him down another alley. It’s a slightly longer walk home, but it’s more private than the street, and they probably aren’t the only people stumbling home from Lacey’s party right now.

  They don’t talk on the way home. Peter silently pulls his hand away from Thatcher’s just before they get back to campus and they walk up to Peter’s room together. Peter kisses him, Thatcher drops down on his bed, and Peter pulls out his own pajamas, and the pajama pants that Thatcher leaves here. Thatcher wonders if Peter’s roommate knows the truth. He’s always conveniently gone and Thatcher, despite living two floors below this room, keeps pajamas and a toothbrush here. Thatcher changes while Peter goes out to the drinking fountain in the hall to fill two mugs with water. Peter changes while Thatcher puts the mugs in the microwave to boil, and picks out two tea bags. Chamomile orange for both of them.

  It’s more domestic than he feels with anyone. More domestic than his and Ethan’s (mostly Ethan’s) Tuesday Night Tidy Up. More domestic than the couple of times he and Lillian cooked dinner together at his
house. Peter brings their tea to his bed and they curl up against his headboard, hissing as their freezing bare toes touch.

  “So, what do you want to do now?” Peter asks. “Movie, TV, podcast? I’m basically pro anything that encourages spooning.”

  Careful not to upset his tea, Thatcher leans forward and kisses him. “I wish I knew why I loved you.”

  Peter chuckles. “Okay. That feels like a really backhanded compliment.”

  Thatcher kisses him again, then pulls back and carefully sets his tea on the window ledge. “No. I mean … I know exactly what I love about you. It’s a big long list.”

  “Are my abs mentioned anywhere on it?”

  “Yes. Number twenty five on the list of reasons I love you reads “Abdominals, comma, the gloriousness of,” Thatcher deadpans. Peter laughs, leans over Thatcher’s body to get his own mug out of the way, and sets his hands around Thatcher’s waist.

  “That’s not what I mean though. I mean I wish I understood why, when I’ve never been with a guy or looked at a guy, I love you.”

  Peter runs his hand through Thatcher’s hair. “It’s a spectrum. Don’t worry about it. You’re just one of those people who bounces around it. Maybe I’m the guy who opens you up to a wonderful gay world and I’m just the tip of your big gay iceberg. Maybe you’ll only date a guy once or twice again. Maybe you’ll never date another guy as long as you live.”

  Thatcher leans into Peter further. “Maybe I won’t,” he whispers.

  Peter is silent for a moment then clears his throat. “Umm… so. Movie, TV, podcast. Your choice.”

  “I thought we were going to have sex again?”

  Peter cups Thatcher’s face again. “Okay. But, that was a fucking amazing blow job and I’m going to need a little time. Here.” He scoots down the bed, yanks up the covers and waves Thatcher under them. He goes over to his desk, fiddles with his computer, spins his desk chair around to face the bed, and sets his computer down on top of it.

  “Let’s do How I Met Your Mother.”

  “And maybe a little bit of hand stuff?” Thatcher asks, laughing halfway through his suggestion.

  Peter shrugs and pulls an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. “Maybe.”

  In spite of the promise of more sex to come, Thatcher is drifting by the end of the episode. Peter’s body is warm, his arms are comforting. The voices and canned laughter of this episode are familiar and the dorm is quiet enough in this gap between J-term and spring term that it’s hard to stay completely awake. He’s lucid enough to track Marshall and Lily’s conversation, tinny through the laptop speakers, but he doesn’t notice Peter’s hand in his underwear until Peter’s fist circles his cock.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. Still up for that fucking I promised you?” Peter whispers in his ear, ghosting his palm around Thatcher’s still flaccid cock.

  Thatcher tries to make some sort of smart ass remark, but it comes out as a half awake snuffling sort of noise.

  “Right. Right.” Peter yawns in his ear, but keeps stroking him. “I’ll get you up for it. Just relax.”

  Thatcher considers opening his eyes, but it hardly seems necessary. Peter’s stroke is slow, steady and gentle, becoming a little bit firmer as Thatcher does. Thatcher sighs happily and twists his back so his hips can tilt up and give Peter better access to his cock. He turns his face down into Peter’s pillow so he can breathe in the scent of Peter’s aftershave, and whatever that shit he uses in his hair is. Peter takes it as an invitation to trace his lips along Thatcher’s neck, and while that wasn’t Thatcher’s intention he’s certainly not complaining about it.

  He’s hard enough where he wants something done about it when Peter starts fumbling at the hem of his t-shirt. They sit up, disrobe quickly, but not manically. Peter pulls off Thatcher’s shirt, and then his own while Thatcher slips out of his pajama pants and the boxers that have already had such a hard night he’s not sure why he thought it was a good idea to sleep in them. They let their clothes get lost under the covers. They’ll deal with them later.

  Peter’s naked body settles down onto him. Thatcher sighs at the heat of his skin. His strong arms slip underneath Thatcher’s shoulders and squeeze him into an inescapable kiss while they rut together. At the first shiver of lust through Thatcher’s body, Peter pulls away and guides him onto his stomach.

  “I love it like this,” Thatcher tells him as Peter goes back to his desk for the lube.

  “I know you do,” Peter says as he returns to the bed. He pulls the blankets off of Thatcher, and Thatcher shivers at the sudden loss of their combined heat, but not for long. “Put your arms over your head,” Peter whispers.

  Thatcher complies, turning his head to the side, where he can see Netflix, asking them if they want to keep watching. He closes his eyes and lets Peter take charge. Peter uses his knee to nudge Thatcher’s legs apart. Peter rubs his hands up and down Thatcher’s back a few times before he pulls them away. Thatcher hears the click of the lube bottle before Peter’s big, slick fingers, slide down through Thatcher’s cheeks.

  No rush. No hurry. No desperate need to get off, no determined push to be done before someone catches them. Nothing but peace and time.

  Peter’s fingertip pushes into him deliberately, without the caution he used when they first started doing this. Thatcher sighs again and inches his legs out a little more as Peter slips his well lubed finger deep into him. Outside of his direct control, his hips rut gently down against the sheets as Peter massages his prostate.

  “I could come like this, I think.” Thatcher yawns.

  “All over my sheets?” Peter asks.

  “Yeah.” Thatcher hums happily. “In a big sticky mess all over them. To match the one that’s going to be on Lacy’s house all winter.”

  Kisses down his spine add to the pleasure in his body.

  “Fair enough. They’re due for a wash.” Peter carefully pushes another finger inside him. Thatcher groans and twists his fingers into the pillow above him. Peter pulls the pillow away and tosses it off the side of the bed.

  “No. Don’t do that. Feel it. Feel me touching you.”

  “Make me feel it,” Thatcher replies, holding his fingers out stiffly, not sure what to do with his hands now.

  Peter chuckles. He sets a third finger to Thatcher’s threshold, but stops. Thatcher whines and rocks back enough for the tips of two of Peter’s fingers to slip back inside him, but with a gentle pat to Thatcher’s rump, Peter pulls his hand away. Thatcher feels his hips sink deeper into the mattress as Peter kneels over him.

  His breath catches as Peter clasps Thatcher’s crossed wrists and pins his arms above his head. Peter kisses his cheek and Thatcher can hear the sound of the condom wrapper crinkling as Peter crumples it, then the sound of his lubed up hand slicking over his thick cock.

  “Tell me if it’s too much like this,” Peter whispers as he sets the head of his cock to Thatcher’s only partly prepped ass and starts to push forward.

  Thatcher gasps as he feels Peter move into him. It’s more resistance than usual, way more than at first, when he’d been afraid to do this and Peter swayed him with the promise of a very thorough stretching that became routine. But it’s not too much. Peter’s going incredibly slow, a little too slow, but Thatcher doesn’t want to say anything. He wants to give up control right now, put this night in Peter’s hands and not have to worry about anything. His arms spasm as he feels Peter push up to the point inside him that’s always hard to pass, and he moans when Peter shifts his weight up in response, making it impossible for Thatcher to get any friction for his cock besides what shallowly humping the mattress can provide.

  Peter groans and pulls back out then inches back in, slowly forcing his way inside. It’s a lot to take, but it still feels good and the burn as his muscles try to work around the intrusion is making Thatcher even harder. He shudders as Peter moves past the point inside him that always puts up a fight.

  “You okay?” Peter asks huskily.

  “Don’t stop,”
Thatcher mutters, trying to buck back onto him, encourage him to move in further and whining when he realizes he doesn’t have enough movement available to him, pinned as he is between Peter’s hands heavy on his wrists and Peter’s cock thick in his ass.

  The feeling of fullness is overwhelming, it’s hovering on the edge of too much, and if he and Peter hadn’t already crossed into new territory twice tonight with such great results Thatcher’s not sure he’d be able to handle this. Peter rocks out and back in a little bit, and the pleasure caused by the movement makes Thatcher’s whole body twitch. His face moving against the sheets make him realized how much he’s sweating, as he feels Peter’s hips press against his ass as he bottoms out.

  Peter growls and lowers his body down onto Thatcher’s, so that he’s being held down everywhere, immobile under the firm, warm ballast of Peter’s body. It’s not how they usually play at restraint. It’s nothing like behind held up in the shower, his heels pressing manically into the handicap bars making his ass clench around Peter’s cock mercilessly. It’s not like having his arms tied to the head board, or the very odd experiment a couple weeks ago, when Peter tied Thatcher’s ankles together with a bandana and fucked him incoherent while Thatcher tried to balance in his lap. It’s more intense but more mellow at the same time. It doesn’t make him feel a little bit silly about how kinky it is, but it makes him feel totally powerless in a way he didn’t realize he needed so badly.

  The stretch and burn of Peter inside him is amazing, but the feeling of Peter totally enveloping him is what’s really making lust spiral in Thatcher’s stomach. He knows what he loves about Peter’s habits and smiles and the way Peter makes him feel when they are together. It’s harder for him to articulate what he loves about Peter physically, and he knows one of the things holding him up about explaining this relationship to anyone else is that physical aspect. It’s not like he has to go into detail and explain to Ethan he loves the way he can feel his body working to take Peter inside. Or how he loves the way Peter can do this to him, crush him helplessly down into a crinkling, squeaking vinyl mattress that has probably seen a hundred iterations of this same embrace over its sad little life. He doesn’t have to say any of that to Ethan, ever, but he knows that because Peter’s a man, Ethan’s going to wonder about it.