January Thaw Page 4

  If Thatcher had stumbled into a relationship with some girl who could do this to him, he’d never feel like he had to mention to Ethan, and he sure as hell wouldn’t ever feel like he’d have to justify it to his nosy best friend. But with a man, he feels so obligated to bring it up. How could he possibly like taking it up the ass from some huge jock?

  But Peter is a break from “The Plan”. Peter is not the girl he’s supposed to marry after an appropriately long courtship that doesn’t impact his professional goals. Maybe Thatcher can’t admit to Peter because it’ll be like admitting he’s throwing away all these years of planning out his life. It’ll be a total loss of control.

  But right now, held down by Peter’s strong arms, pinned under his muscular weight, impaled on his thick cock, a loss of control is everything Thatcher wants. Peter’s taking over and Thatcher doesn’t have anything to worry about, or decide, or make good on. It’s amazing, and it takes a moment before Thatcher realizes he’s muttering “Come on, come on, come on,” mostly to himself.

  “Soon, baby, soon,” Peter says. Thatcher whines with want. He can tell Peter is forcing the words through his teeth, wants to start fucking him as badly as Thatcher wants to be fucked already. Thatcher tries to rock backward onto Peter’s cock, but he can’t manage it. He’s crushed underneath him and he can barely move. Peter’s breath is wafting over his face, catching in the sweat on his face and making everything feel airless. Thatcher feels his arms suddenly freed, Peter pulls his wrists apart and plants them on either side of his head before he turns his stubbled chin down against Thatcher’s throat. The prickling feeling, the only sensation of movement against his overwhelmed body, makes him shudder again, then cry out when Peter finally grinds against him, pushing in as deep as he can and barely pulling back before he rocks in hard again. Thatcher keeps waiting for him to do more, move further, fuck him harder, but Peter does it over and over again, pushing in so hard that Thatcher’s body scoots a little further up the mattress, enough to make his cock beg for more, then pulling back by a mere fraction of an inch, and doing it again.

  Thatcher is rock fucking hard and can’t do anything about it. Peter’s hands are tight around each of his wrists, pinning him down. Even if he could move his hands his hips are pinned too tightly to the mattress for him to be able to touch his cock. Peter is licking and sucking and biting along his neck, making a sound in his ear halfway between a pant and a growl, and he’s still grinding inward, no hurry, no agenda, like he could do this until either dawn, or Thatcher, breaks.

  “Peter, harder, please,” Thatcher begs.

  “Shh. Shh. Just go with it. S’okay.”

  Thatcher tries to arch his back but can’t. He moves his legs as close together as Peter’s knees will allow, trying to at least make the fullness and the friction more intense, hoping it will push him over the edge, but it doesn’t.

  “Shh, shh,” Peter says again, planting sloppy kisses along Thatcher’s cheek. “Jesus fucking shit, you’ve never been this tight, baby.”

  He grinds in hard again, and Thatcher starts to feel something like a buzzing in his skin. Pressed down into the mattress, his cock is dripping again. Peter doesn’t pull back, just tries, impossibly, to push in further, again and again. Thatcher’s body suddenly tightens, and to his shock, he’s coming, untouched, barely fucked, all over Peter’s sheets like he threatened. He cries out into the mattress.

  “Thatch?” Peter pants. “Did you just––”

  “Uh…” Thatcher manages, still shaking after the sudden, expected orgasm. “Yeah. Yeah I did. Sorry.”

  Peter growls and finally pulls back and fucks into him in earnest. “That is so fucking hot, baby. You coming without me touching your cock? Dammit. Fuck.”

  “Peter … I just … I can’t,” Thatcher whines. The cheap, now sticky, polyester blend rubbing against his cock is too much for him now that he’s come, and Peter should know that by now.

  “Right,” Peter says. He sticks his hand, palm up, under Thatcher’s hip bone and lifts Thatcher’s body so that he can get his knees underneath him. The movement takes Peter all of five seconds before he’s manically fucking Thatcher again.

  The stretch of Peter inside him is less overwhelming than when they first started, but the intensity of holding himself still while his cock goes limp and he gives his lover an orgasm is still overloading his system. He doesn’t want the top tier law school and the hypothetical perfect wife and the theoretical kids. He wants this. He wants this more than anything else.

  Peter hunches over his body, slows like he’s trying to make it last as long as he can, then jerks into Thatcher’s body and lets his full weight drop on top of him, forcing him back down into the mattress, where, piled on top of each other, they both fight for breath.

  After a few moments, Peter kisses his neck and pulls out. Thatcher groans at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Peter rolls him onto his back, and Thatcher watches as Peter very conscientiously knots the condom and lobs it expertly into the trash can by the head board.

  Peter grins at him before lowering himself back down into a kiss. “You look a little stunned. You alright?”

  Thatcher nods and pulls Peter down to into a kiss, laughing at the way Peter is careful not to touch his still oversensitive cock before he flops onto his side and pulls Thatcher back into the curve of his body.

  “That was incredible.” Peter sighs, touching his sweat dripping forehead to Thatcher’s. “I mean, really, Thatch, that was fucking amazing. I love you.” He peppers kisses across Thatcher’s face like an overexcited puppy would lick its owner’s face. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  Thatcher chuckles and tries to playfully push Peter away. It doesn’t work and he doesn’t try again, he lets Peter’s affection come back down to a normal level.

  Peter kisses his head again. “Ugh. I wish you didn’t have to go back downstairs. I wish you could just stay here with me all night.”

  “Yeah,” Thatcher agrees. He cards his fingers through Peter’s sweat soaked blond hair. “Me too. I wish I––” He bites his lip, not sure if he really wants to start this conversation again. “I wish I could just tell Ethan that I was sleeping up here, and have it not matter why.”

  “I’d love that. I’d get to find out if you snore,” Peter murmured into Thatcher’s hair.

  “And in the morning we could go out for breakfast.”

  “I’d take you somewhere nice. And we’d order lots of bacon and then I’d let you pay so you could feel all manly.”

  “And then you could go to practice, and I could go back to my room and do my homework.”

  “And I’d pick you up so we could go get dinner in the cafeteria together. Ethan and Charlotte could even it with us.”

  “Then probably more homework.” Thatcher chuckled.

  “And then when you were done you could come back up here with me.” Peter kissed the sweaty spot behind his ear. “And maybe we’d watch a movie and cuddle. Or maybe we’d debate politics. Or maybe we’d have a beer. Or maybe,” Peter’s lips brushed over the tendon in his neck again, “I’d show you how to fuck me.”

  Thatcher shivers and rolls into a kiss, not even caring when his still recovering cock tries to protest that it can’t handle another round tonight.

  A buzzing sound––his vibrating phone––cuts into their moment. Thatcher sighs, pulls away and grabs the leg of his pants off the floor. He pulls the jeans over to himself until he can grab the waistband, then lifts them up and plucks his phone out of the back pocket.

  “It’s Ethan,” Thatcher says. Peter doesn’t reply.

  He takes a deep breath and answers.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, Thatcher. You feeling better?” Ethan asks.

  “Yeah, man. Tons,” Thatcher replies. “I wasn’t, um, actually drunk. I just, I don’t think that tofu and rice thing at the cafeteria agreed with me. The punch didn’t help though.”

  “Yeah. Right? I only had one glass and I’m still spi
nning. I’m back in our room. Where are you?”

  Thatcher looks at Peter. His heart is jack hammering. “I’m … I’m up in Peter’s room.”

  Peter’s hand around his waist suddenly grips him tight.

  “Um. Okay,” Ethan says. Thatcher hears him clear his throat uncomfortably and wonders how, after everything that’s happened this semester, Ethan hasn’t asked him about it yet. “When are you—um—what are you guys doing?”

  “We’re just, you know, hanging out. Watching some TV.”

  “Um. Alright. When are you coming home, ’cause if you guys are going to hang out or whatever, I might see if Charlotte wants to come over to, well, you know. Do it.”

  Thatcher was surprised at the laugh that popped out of him. “Right. Sure. You know man, just call her. I’m, um, I’m not coming home tonight. I’m going to, you know. Sleep here.”

  There was dead silence on the line. Peter’s hand around what, on a thicker person might have been a love handle, squeezed painfully tight at Thatcher’s side.

  “Ethan?” Thatcher asked. “Come on, man. Say something.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t drunk?”

  Thatcher huffed and dropped his forehead into his hand. “I’m really not drunk. You know what I’m like when I’m drunk. Come on man. She sells seashells by the seashore. I’m not drunk.”

  “Okay. Okay. I believe you. Are you… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I’m going to sleep here,” Thatcher repeated. Peter tucked his chin down against Thatcher’s shoulder.

  “Oh. Okay. I-I guess I won’t wait up then.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Umm. So. You guys have a good night. And tell Peter I said hey.”

  Thatcher feels like the phone is going to fall out of his shaking hand. It’s not the in depth conversation he was dreading, and he’s given himself nothing but plausible deniability.

  But he knows that tomorrow, when Ethan asks for real, he’s not going to use it.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah. No problem, buddy. I’ll see you in the am.”

  Ethan hangs up. Thatcher’s shaking too badly to hit the end call button. Peter gently takes the phone out of his hands and does it for him, then sets the phone next to their long abandoned mugs, then wraps his hands around Thatcher’s waist.

  “You okay?”

  “Umm. I think so? I just-I thought that would be…”

  “A big fucking tragedy?” Peter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too,” Peter admitted. “So. Ethan knows. Or at least has to have been partially lobotomized not to have guessed by now. Do you need anything?”

  Thatcher tries to put what he wants into words, but they aren’t coming to him.

  “Thatch? Baby? What’s the plan?” Peter asks again.

  Thatcher takes a deep breath, leans over, hits play where Netflix on Peter’s computer is still asking them if they want to continue and settles down on the bed. After a moment, Peter settles behind him again, wraps an arm around his waist and kisses the top of his head.

  They fall asleep like that, and the next morning, they go out for breakfast.

  The End

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