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Genre: Gay Erotic Romance (M/M), Published: April 1, 2011
This is the opening of the short story THE
This story was inspired by the Alanis Morissette song “Your House” where she walks into her former lover’s house, puts on his robe, listens to his music, and lies in his bed, all while he’s seeing someone else. I wanted to write a story with a similar theme, but give it a romantic twist. “The Break-In” is the result of that personal challenge.
The Break-In by Sloan Parker
My foot slipped on the windowsill, and I flung through the opening feet first. I landed with my ass on the hardwood floor, my feet stuck under a dresser, and my hands twisted in the curtains.
How many times had I snuck through that window? It should’ve been second nature to me. I shouldn’t have been slumped on the floor like the world’s worst prowler.
And yet, there I was, gripping the long curtains in both fists, adrenaline rushing through me as though they were going to walk in and find me stuck in that ridiculous position. Which was stupid. I wasn’t about to get caught. They had dinner out every Friday night. Not at the same restaurant, but it didn’t matter where they were. It only mattered that they wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours. I had time.
I untangled my hands, pushed myself off the floor, and listened for a moment. Despite my need for silence, the lack of any life inside the apartment disturbed me. I missed the sound of his laughter as he viewed the countless YouTube videos he pretended he didn’t watch, the tapping on the keyboard of his laptop, his humming in the shower.
I stood still in the silent bedroom for another few breaths. The music first. It made the couple of hours I spent in the apartment seem like I was supposed to be there, like I still lived there and was doing the laundry or jogging on the treadmill. Anything but the real reason.
Down the long hall, the hardwood floor squeaked in the same places it always had. I strode past the couch we’d made love on so many times, past his recliner where he’d do his work, letting my hand linger on the worn blue fabric of the headrest. How many times had he set aside his laptop and called me to him? How many times had I curled up in his arms there?
I crossed the living room to the stereo. I didn’t even check, just hit the play button and waited for the soulful jazz to break the silence.
The quiet disrupted, I crept back down the hall to the bedroom where I ignored the large bed, the visible red sheets, the comforter crumpled at the foot of the mattress. Ignoring those details would be better, wouldn’t let me think things like, nine months and he still needed me for something.
I opened the top dresser drawer and rifled through the contents until my fingers met the soft fabric of his black briefs, the ones I had clasped between my teeth as I undressed him so many times. I laid the underwear across the top of the dresser and wrenched off my pants and T-shirt. I shivered and tried to tell myself it was the chill in the room meeting my naked body. Right.
My underwear on the floor, I slipped into his pair, trying to ignore the erection forming, the way my body warmed with the slide of the fabric. When I first started breaking in, it would take me until the end of my routine before I’d get hard. The sadness used to be too heavy; it overpowered the desire. Now, the feel of his underwear against my skin worked like a dream.
Inside the next drawer were the jeans. They were too wide, too long, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere dressed like that. The clothes were for me. He’d never see me in them. The idea of him finding me dressed like that turned me on more. I pulled on his jeans and went for the closet.
I ran my hand over every shirt, every suit, every pair of slacks, loving the mental images of him in the courtroom, the command of that strong voice. The shirt I wanted to wear in my hand, I reached for the tie rack. The dark blue one. It went best with his eyes, like the last time I’d seen him in it. He’d just landed a major client and promotion, and we were celebrating at Romano’s. By the end of the night, I was begging him to tie me up using only that tie. He paid the bill, and we were out the door before the waiter had a chance to bring the dessert cart. We never made it to using the tie, though. After, when he was holding me in the dark, our bodies sweat-soaked, the cum still drying on my skin, he had whispered, “Next weekend, we’ll use the tie.”
Too bad I’d never know what it felt like when he wound the tie around my wrists.
Too bad I had fucked up before the next weekend and had lost it all.
I glided my hand across my chest and plucked a nipple. With my other hand, I stroked myself through his jeans and bucked my hips. If I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t last as long as I wanted.
Time for the rest.
His shirt on and the tie draped around my neck, I moved my private party to the bathroom. The cologne was sitting on the vanity top as if I were expected, as if he knew I visited every Friday night. When I had lived there, he kept the cologne tucked inside the medicine cabinet. I trembled as I lifted the bottle. Out of fear? Or hope?
In either case, I didn’t let it linger. He didn’t know about my visits. If he had, he would’ve called the cops. Or my parole officer. No, he would’ve confronted me.
I opened the bottle and splashed cologne on my neck. My skin tingled with the memory of his hands on me. I buried my nose in my palm. Never did smell the same on me. I’d give anything to smell it on him. One more time.
No. I’d give anything to have it all back—the sex, the long talks in bed, the laughter, the love. But it would never be like that.
I’d never live in that apartment again. Never make love in that bed. Never be held in those strong arms. I had to accept that. And someday, I would. I’d stop the breaking and entering every Friday night. But not yet.
It was a small change that caught my eye, but it was enough to startle me. The bottle of lube kept inside the shower was now in the soap dish, not the shower caddy. Had they purposely decided to store it somewhere new, or had they accidentally left it there? Had they been in the shower together that morning? Fucking each other?
Had it been Roger inside Doug?
Or the other way around?
I couldn’t stop the memories: my forehead pressed against the glass door as he took me from behind; those large hands on my hips, on my chest, on my cock; me on my knees and his dick in my mouth—just the way he liked after a long day at work. He called my mouth the best stress relief he’d ever had. I’d never been anyone’s best anything before.
Never would again. All because of one mistake. The worst of my life.
Since I was twelve, my mom had said I’d end up in prison. Who knew she’d be right? I had thought finding the love of my life had meant the end of the bad shit, the beginning of a new life.
If only I hadn’t gone out that night.
If only I had done what he wanted—stayed in, decorated the tree, listened to Christmas carols, made love to “Moon Dreams” by Miles Davis.
If only I hadn’t believed my best friend when he said we wouldn’t get caught.
But I knew what an empty belly felt like. I knew what it was like to live on the streets, turning tricks for a meal.
I scrubbed a hand over my face before the tears could form and reached for the lube they had moved since my last visit. I placed it on the top shelf of the shower caddy. I’d move it back before I left, but something inside me couldn’t leave it alone. I needed it to be where we had kept it.
Not where they did.
Back in the bedroom, I didn’t want to look at the bed, didn’t want to see the mussed covers, the sheets twisted in a way that only meant one thing had last happened there. I kept my eyes squeezed shut as I crawled to the center of the bed. My erection had subsided with the memories of how I’d lost it all, but the sound of the smooth jazz and the scent of him on the pillows aroused me again. I shifted my hips and reached for the top button of the too-big jeans.
I froze with the sound of the front door opening. Their laughter poured into the apartment, blending with the cool, passionate jazz. It sounded like laughter at a wake. It mocked me. The sound track of my life.
Hyperventilation set in. Why were they home early?
Their laughter grew louder. I needed to get up and out the window. Why couldn’t I move?
“You leave the music on?” That was Doug. His soothing voice always got to me. I missed hearing it mix with his laugh, hearing him whisper all the sexy, delicious things he wanted to do to me.
“Don’t know. Maybe,” Roger said. His voice grew louder. “Must have.”
Why did he have to sound sexy too?
I scrambled for the edge of the bed and scooped up the clothes I’d worn to break in. Their footsteps approached the bedroom door. No time to change.
The doorknob turned.
No time for anything.
I dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed, the big-ass jeans getting all tangled up, making it hard to move. The blue tie must have slipped off me. It lay on the floor beside the bed. I grabbed it, and the door swung in. I jerked my hand back and clutched the tie to my chest.
Doug stepped in first. The dark cowboy boots were the same ones he wore every day, even under the suits. His feet turned as Roger came in close. The sound of their kisses filled the room.
Oh God. They were going to make love with me underneath the goddamn bed.
A tie fell to the floor three feet from my face. Doug’s tie. His dress shirt followed, a crumbled pool of fabric around their ankles.
Yep. I was going to be stuck under the bed listening to them go at each other. The thought should’ve unnerved me. And it did, in a way, but it also turned me on. I would get to hear him moan and beg. Hear him cry out as he came.
Another shirt fell to the floor, and both men toed off their boots and socks. They kissed again, the sloppy sounds mixing with Doug’s little hums. God, how I missed that.
“Love you.” That was Roger. Those whispered words brought tears to my eyes. I wiped them away. I would not cry. I would enjoy the moment for what it was—me listening to two hot guys having sex. It couldn’t be anything more.
“Tell me.” Roger again.
“No,” Doug said. He took a step back from Roger, his bare feet coming even closer to the edge of the bed—to me. “You promised me we wouldn’t talk about it again.”
Continued in The Break-In by Sloan Parker
Copyright 2011. Sloan Parker. All Rights Reserved.