We’ve both been quiet tonight, but it’s not awkward. Sometimes, having company while I process my thoughts is comforting. He’s been playing with the fingers on my left hand for the past ten minutes and using his fingertips to make swirling patterns on my palm, making me a little ticklish.
“So… I was thinkin’,” he says quietly, interrupting the silence. “What if somethin' came up, and I couldn’t make it here to meet you?”
Confused at first, a seed of worry plants itself in the pit of my stomach. Is he trying to tell me he doesn’t want to come and meet me anymore?
“Ugh, stop.”
“Stop what?” I ask, bewildered.
“Stop overthinkin'. I don’t think I’m gettin' my point across very well.” He huffs, sounding exasperated, but I can’t quite tell if it’s with me or him.
“Okay, why don’t you try to articulate what you mean? And I’ll try not to overthink. Deal?”
“What I meant was, we’ve had a pretty lucky run. What if one of these days, somethin’ comes up, and we can’t make it here on a Sunday night?” He swivels to face me, kneeling between my legs. I tilt my head to the side, trying to figure out what he’s attempting to say in his very roundabout way.
I’ve come to learn this is quite typical of Cee. He beats around the bush for a while when he’s nervous or shy before eventually getting to the point. I think I can reasonably guess what he’s aiming for, and I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it sooner.
“Cee?” I ask, smirking at him.
“Yeah?”
“Would you maybe want my phone number?”
“I suppose that’s one solution, yeah.” He huffs.
“Yes, Cee, of course you can have my number; what an excellent idea,” I reply condescendingly.
“In case nobody has ever told you before, you’re very annoyin’ when you look all smug,” he says, looking all cute and scowly.
“I have two brothers. I’m told on a daily basis how annoying my face is, don’t worry about it.” I boop him on the nose to wind him up a bit more. “You’re pretty cute when you’re grumpy with me.”
“I must be cute all the time then because you’re very infuriatin'.” He pouts at me, and I can’t help but kiss him.
The kiss heats up quickly. We’re breathless when we pull apart, and I have to reach into my jeans to readjust myself. He looks down at my crotch, pleased with his efforts.
Cee returns to sitting with his head against my chest while we endeavour to simmer back down. This is easier said than done, though, because his back is providing just enough pressure against my dick to stop my erection from waning. I attempt to think unsexy thoughts. The great Irish potato famine was between 1845 and 1852. WWI started in 1914 and ended in 1918. WWII began in 1939 and ended in 1945. The first wolf shifters to settle in England came over with the Vikings in 739.
My dick finally gets the picture and admits defeat.
Cee keeps fidgeting, which usually indicates that he’s overthinking something.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I hate it when you do that,” he says with a slight chuckle.
“No, you don’t. We’d never discuss anything if I didn’t squeeze it out of you.” I squeeze his body between my legs for emphasis, and he laughs some more.
It probably says a lot about my current state of blue balls that I’m reasonably confident I could get off to the sound of Cee's laughter; it’s deep and unreserved like sunshine bursting through a gap in the clouds. It’s quickly become one of my favourite sounds in the world.
“D’you ever think about sex?” he asks shyly.
“Probably seventy-five percent of my day,” I answer him honestly.
“Great, love that for you.” His voice is laced with sarcasm.
“I’m young and horny. I think about sex a lot. What’s wrong with that?” I laugh, and he mumbles something under his breath. “What was that?”
“For someone who thinks about it a lot, you’ve never tried to have sex withme.”
