The stillness of the quiet was real; almost too real as Jon heard the life in the forest: the birds that did not migrate south, the subtle brushing of branches. In the many times he had been to the campus forest, never had ever paid mind to these things. Observant was not a word to be associated him, but as he sat there, heart heavy and head light, the press of Kasperās lips still lingering on his own. The windows rolled automatically as he pressed the driverās panel; his mind racing and chanting, singing with the words -- breathe, breathe, breathe.Ā But his chest heaved heavily to the rush of his heartbeat, feeling as if he had run for the first time in a very long time, and when Kasper spoke, he didnāt know it calmed him. In fact, a soft chuckle escaped from as he battled on the thought of leaning towards the hand that cupped his head, until he had no chance to think of it at all.Ā
Under an orange tree in Florida, that was his first kiss. It was a Sunday, and the girl had the reddest hair and the most freckles. Sometimes, if lights would permit it, he would imagine that very same girl in place of other people he had kissed; he would imagine - child-like - what it must feel like to not rush into a kiss and have his lips crushed in childish excitement. Tonight, head lights still on and passing through columns of wintered-trees, she was not in his mind at all. No, because when his found Kasperās again, it was Kasperās voice in his head; because when his tongue grazed subtly with Kasperās, it was Kasperās hair that tickled his cheek. From every lick and lock, halts that would build up more the want to start again, the question of why hasnāt he done this before grew louder and louder in his head; and when Kasper pulled back it was now his palm reaching and cupping the blondeās jaw -- soft as he had always been, hungry as he had always been. And words kept ringing -- youāre better than that, youāre better than thatĀ -- and yes, he was.Ā
Ex-lovers had praised him for his intimate ways, but now it was as if he was learning again -- under an orange tree in Florida, Sunday afternoon sun burning the back of his neck -- and touching the lines of Kasperās jaw, biting soft his lips and waiting to taste sweet him like crushed strawberries and Sunday mass sin. And he panted just when his tongue was starting to lick the of Kasperās, to ask in a quiet whisper, āCan I?āElementaryĀ hesitation and adult shyness on his cheeks and lidded eyes before a hand traveled from the base of Kasperās skull to the flesh of his ass, before a hand traveled from Kasperās jaw to trail a warm palm over his side to the pronounced bone on his hip.Ā āCan I?ā he asked again in a whisper, head dropping low to pelt kisses on Kasperās neck, biting softly in small, quick desires; fingers dancing by exposed skin between jeans and shirt, shifting in his seat and stretching his legs to let the growing throb in his pants settle.Ā āKasper,ā he breathed now, a ghost by the sound of the engine humming before he bit by Kasperās nape and pulled him closer by the belt loops of his jeans.
Outside, a woodpecker pecked on the aged Oak, doing what it was meant to do, then.Ā
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