Finding Home



You find Justin in a second floor apartment the size of a coat closet, surrounded by people as seedy as the décor.

“Brian!” His face lights up and a smile like his nickname spreads across his lips. You hide your own smile in his hair and put up with the enthusiastic embrace. “What are you doing here?”

You give an excuse about conferences with uptight, asshole clients, which had been the truth for the trip until you saw him and realized you just missed him. In your head, you can see Mikey rolling his eyes with an annoying, “Duh!”

“Grab your coat,” you say, ignoring Mikey. You want to fuck Justin as soon as possible, but not here.

Justin nods and loses his cool, bouncing more than walking across the tiny room. You stay by the door and drink in his happiness at your mere presence. You’re humbled a little, though you feel mostly smug.

“Who’s the guy?” What you’d thought was a dog, but is actually a person lounging on the stained floor asks as he’s hit by the dangling arm of Justin’s coat.

“My husband,” Justin says with a mischievous grin that goes right to your dick.

You bite the inside of your cheek, grab Justin’s hand, and pull him out of the apartment. He laughs, tripping down the stairs behind you. You shut him up at the bottom with a kiss that makes you question the wisdom in waiting until you get to your hotel to fuck.

Justin decides for you. “Clean room. Hot shower. Real bed,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You drag yourself away with a heavy, humoring sigh. He simply hooks his elbow with yours and walks out of the building.

The drive is a lesson in patience, and you nearly commit indecent acts in the hall, but you eventually make it to your hotel room. Behind closed doors, you bitch reflexively when he stretches your shirt in his hurry to get it off. He bites your left nipple in reply. Fuck, you’ve missed him.

You tangle with him on the bed like your clothes do on the floor and everything fits exactly the way it should. Your first fuck is fast and messy, your second is slow and even messier, but both give you the best orgasms you’ve had in too many months, and you grudgingly admit it’s the person, not the sex that makes it that way.

Justin murmurs against your throat, his body draped across yours like he owns you. He knows he does, and you extinguish your cigarette with a self-deprecating smile.

You’ll give him a year, maybe two. By then, the New York art scene will be chasing him instead and he could work from anywhere, giving you a reason to drag his ass back to where it belongs. You think of the rings stuck in a shoebox in the back of your closet and make a bet with yourself how long they’ll stay there.

Justin nuzzles closer and sighs your name in his sleep.

You already know you’ve lost, but you don’t mind, because it’s Justin and the little fucker made you believe in shit like happily ever after. You tuck your arm around his shoulders, press a kiss to his hair, and close your eyes. You fall asleep blanketed by contentment and a bit of drool.

It’s one of the best nights of your life.



End


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