testing, testing
by ParesBlair's sitting still for a change. That would have tipped me off, if his increased respiration and heartbeat hadn't already. His hands are gripping his thighs lightly, and he's making a special effort to seem relaxed.
"Are you sure this isn't bothering you?"
"Seriously man, I'm fine. You're right about me needing a control subject. You testing *me* is, well, only fair, right?"
He smells nervous, astringent, but not hostage-situation nervous, just a little apprehensive.
His eyes slide open and he looks at me for a moment, then clears his throat and asks, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are we gonna start? What are we testing first?"
"Smell," I answer decisively, like I've got it all planned out.
He nods, takes a "cleansing breath" and tries to relax his hands, spreads them out on his black jeans. His eyes slip shut, and I watch the rise and fall of his chest, hear his heartbeat settle into the more familiar rhythm of Blair-At-Ease. He's an excitable little guy, but his heart rate doesn't fluctuate a whole lot unless he's upset, afraid or hurt. It's something I've always liked about him. It's reassuring somehow.
After a while, his eyes open again and he gives me a speculative look.
"Sandburg. Would you close your eyes?"
"I could get the blindfold--"
I hold up a hand.
"We don't need one, Chief. I think even you can keep your eyes closed for a few minutes of 'Guess the Smell.'"
He waves his hands dismissively, "Okay, okay, forget I asked." He closes his eyes again, and he's trying not to squint. His eyelids look as smooth as fresh paint, and his breathing is even.
I shuck my jacket and hold the sleeve under his nose, then the collar.
He tips his head, and he says, "Leather."
"Anything else?" It's weird, but I want to know how much *he* can tell. Sandburg's an observant kid, and bright as hell, but I want to know how sensual... Aware. I mean aware, he is.
"It's yours," he replies.
"No kidding, Sandburg, but what does it smell like? How do you know it's mine?"
"Because it smells like you," he answers, sounding a little miffed.
"Well, yeah, but can you tell me what *that* smells like?"
Sandburg is nodding, long springy brown hair bobbing, and his expression, even with his eyes closed, is one of understanding.
"Yeah, Jim. I see what you're getting at. Lemme see, uh... Your soap. Neutrogena. And your shave cream. Whatever that 'sensitive skin' one is. Your sweat, I guess. Is this your collar?" His voice tips up at the end of the sentence, and I nod before I remember that he can't see me.
"Yup. Collar of my jacket. Okay," I scan around, looking for something else for him to sense... I should have planned ahead more, but this was kind of a spur of the moment thing, and by definition, you can't really plan for them. "Next," I say, stalling a little while I grab one of those little potted plants of his and snap off a leaf.
I crush the leaf under his nose, rub it between my thumb and forefinger and he sneezes. Laughs, then sneezes again.
"Oregano, man," he manages, and that little fluttery sigh he makes at the end of a giggling session completes his sentence.
"Bingo. You're doin' good, kid."
"Jim," he scoffs, "You could tell me where it was grown, if there were any pesticides present, what the pH of the rainwater was--"
"Ah, but we're not testing me. We're testing *you*. Blair Sandburg, regular guy. Standard senses, right?"
"Well, yeah."
"So you're doing okay. Next." I hold the next item under his nose and he frowns a little.
* * *
This has got to be one of my weirder afternoons with Jim.
Sometimes I think I have got to be out of my *mind*, or maybe just obsessed. Gina left me a voicemail this morning, and she sounded *frisky*, but instead of taking advantage of my half day to get to know her a little better, if you know what I mean, I'm here with Jim, my pretty steadily *non*-spontaneous roommate playing what amounts to a kind of semi-scientific pick up game with my senses and sniffing a--
What the hell *is* that?
It smells like cinnamon. No, it smells like toothpaste. Like Tom of Maine's Cinnamon Toothpaste...
No doubt about it. I am a bonafide whack job. I tipped my teacup's worth of sanity before I even *met* Jim, even, when I impersonated a doctor, of *medicine* no less, in order to get a look at a real, live Sentinel.
And where has it gotten me?
Here.
In Jim's loft.
In Jim's life.
Ignoring attractive women so I can spend some free time with him...
Inhaling toothpaste fumes.
* * *
"Um..." He sniffs, and his nostrils flare. It's a tilted up nose, not small, but... cute, I guess. Can guys *have* cute noses? It's no button; it looks about right for sticking in other people's business. A persistent nose. Well, maybe not that. I don't think anyone can have a persistent nose, but you get what I'm saying right? It's a nose that won't take no for an answer. Resilient, too. He hasn't broken it yet, and that's a little amazing considering all the knocks to the head he's gotten.
"Uh, it's... Is it a toothbrush?"
I can't hide the grin.
"Right."
He grimaces a little. "Weird. Okay, what's next?"
"Hearing."
His eyes almost open. "We're done with smell already?"
"This isn't exactly a laboratory setting here, Sandburg. We're justpracticing, you know, getting a feel for things..."
That mouth of his bunches up, thoughtful. It looks like he's waiting to be kissed, if you want my opinion. Not like he's waiting for a passionate wet one, but like the peck you'd get from a girl in the eighth grade, where the girl is taller and you're dying of anticipation before she finally bends down and smooches you.
Of course, a lot of Sandburg's girlfriends are taller than he is. He even admitted that sometimes it's a real problem trying to keep his head up and his eyes where they should be, and not at chest level, where "they kind of gravitate, man.'"
"We'll start with numbers, I guess. You hold up the number of fingers I say as long as you can hear me."
"Okay."
"Three."
Obligingly, he holds up three fingers.
"Eight." Both square hands go up, eight straight fingers and two folded thumbs.
I'm lowering my voice, but moving closer.
Sandburg cocks his head again.
"Wouldn't this work better if you walked, like, *away* from me, Jim?"
I try not to sound like I'm smiling. I don't want to give this away yet.
"Sandburg, work with me, huh? Let me do the talking, for a change."
"You know, Jim, I think we should have plugged my ears, man. I could totally hear you taking your jacket off, and messing with the plant. Clued me in bigtime. The earplugs are--"
"Blair," and my voice is as annoyed as I can get it as soft as it is, because I'm whispering in his ear, and he swings his head around and that soft hair grazes my face and his broad, high cheekbone kind of whacks into mine.
"That tickles," he informs me, and his voice low and amused.
"We don't need the damned earplugs. Jesus."
"Just trying to be helpful, Jim."
"Helpful."
The kid-- the man-- in the chair has been more than helpful. I try not to think about what my life would have been like if he hadn't slipped me his card at the hospital. The kid's-- *Sandburg's*-- as bold as brass, and it surprises me how often I forget that about him. He looks so... unassuming. So relaxed. I think 'pliant' is the word I'm looking for, but he only *looks* like a laid back hippie kid. In actual fact, the man is a ballbreaker when he wants to be, obstinate like no one I've known... except maybe for me.
The simple truth is I might be dead or worse if it hadn't been for one Blair Sandburg, anthropologist, student of life, teaching fellow, lover of women, leader of men.
That's not quite right. Leading is pretty different from guiding, which is what he does. Leading is about making people do what you want them to do. Guiding people is about helping people get where *they* want to go.
Sandburg can be stubborn, but he's usually... accommodating? This is too hard. That's not the right word, either. It sounds wishy-washy, passive. Which he isn't. He's... caring. Caring is better, it's still not right, but it's better. It's like he's a good host, all the time. To everyone. When he's around, it's like he's doing his best to make you comfortable. Maybe hospitable is what I mean.
Helpful, yeah, but a lot more besides. Quick-witted, open minded, brave. Not fearless, not by a long shot, when he's scared he's the first to volunteer the information, but I've given it some serious thought, and I think his fear only makes him braver. That doesn't make too much sense now that I look at it, but I think you know what I mean.
I don't do a lot of anything you might call "thinking" really when I'm *on*, when I'm zeroing in on some hood, humming, when I'm locked in and surfing that adrenaline rush, but Blair... he "processes". He's imaginative, too, by the way, which is more hurt then help to your reflexes when you can picture 64 ways you and/or other people can be hurt or killed and you're the basket everyone's got their eggs in.
"Jim?"
I don't know how long I've been staring at him, at the tiny golden hairs on his cheeks that turn dark as they near his beard line. The guy could be a Rogaine "After" pin up. Serious hair the kid has. Enough for both of us on his head and his chest... "Uh, Jim? Can I open my eyes now?"
"Touch," I mutter, and if I focus, I can see his hair sway in the gust of my breath.
"All right. Touch it is, then. Touch. Yeah." His heartbeat is picking up again. I hold my hand up, and it hovers a few inches from his right cheek. He turns unconsciously, quiet face following the heat.
"I... I can feel it, man. The heat from your hand. How close is it?"
I can tell he wants to open his eyes, and he's screwing them shut,fighting his own impulse to peek.
I exhale against his hair again and he turns his face back to mine again.
"Breath," he says, very softly. Softly enough that only a Sentinel could hear it? I haven't been concentrating, so I can't tell you that. Or maybe I have been concentrating, just not on that.
I've been concentrating for a long time, I think. Narrowing my focus. Keeping an eye on Blair.
He smells like... oatmeal. He uses some kind of oatmeal soap, no artificial perfumes. It was the first thing I really noticed about him. I could smell him on the other side of that hospital door, hear him taking a deep breath before he slammed into my life and gave me his card. He smelled wholesome and warm. He *smells* that way. Hell, he *is* that way.
I find myself zooming in on the fringe of his eyelashes, the flutter of his lids. He's going to open his eyes any second now, and laser beam a million questions my way.
His eyebrow tips up, and he swallows nervously, dampens his lips, opens his mouth to speak again, and I follow the arch of his browbone with a swipe of my tongue and he freezes, absolutely motionless, and then he exhales abruptly. His heart is skipping now, faster than a schoolyard full of kids playing double dutch and he says, no breath in his lungs behind it:
"You... you uh... you licked my eyebrow."
His eyes snap open, wide and bluer than Cascade's overcast sky, and he repeats, astounded, "Jim! You *licked* my *eyebrow*! What the HELL--"
His hands are flailing around his head, like he's trying to beat back a swarm of bees.
"*You* licked *my* eyebrow."
I nod at him. I can't do more than that, because I'm so close to zoning I'd just keel over. I licked his eyebrow, and *Blair* is exploding all over my senses-- There's a weird twinge in my cheeks like I've just bitten into a Jolly Rancher, and it's like my tastebuds are hard wired to every inch of skin, the tang of salt and weird tingle of lingering patchouli and the warm overlay of that damned oatmeal soap...
Tasting him and smelling him are two very different things, and I can still feel the rasp of his eyebrow against my tongue, and I'll tell you something: I licked my fingers once, after I'd clapped his cheeks, and it was just the faintest echo of what I was experiencing now.
"What the hell does that *mean*?" He looked amazed, and confused, and completely wide open. He's on his feet and pacing immediately, hair jumping around twice as much as he is, hands a blur of motion.
"What do you think it means?" I learned *something* from all those bouts with the department shrink, anyway.
"I think... I think... I have *no* idea! What the hell just happenedhere, Jim!?"
"I licked your eyebrow, Chief," I remind him.
"But... yeah... but... *why*!?"
This time he recognizes the shrug. He comes forward, clapping a hand to my shoulder, staring up at me like he's never seen me before. For a moment, I think he'll hyperventilate. His hand is *clutching* at my biceps now, and he sways a little. Finally, his heart rate slows again, and his breathing evens out.
"Taste," he says conversationally. "Taste. Okay. So... what do I taste like, Jim?"
* * *
Basically, I'm reeling, here. This whole experience has been so... um. Sensual. Sensual in every sense of the word.
If I didn't know better, I'd swear Jim was coming on to me.
But he can't be doing that. He's *not* doing that, because that would change *everything* and for the first time in my life, everything, barring the occasional kidnappings, the odd gun to the head, whatever, is going really, really okay.
And now it seems like... It *feels* like Jim wants...
Spin control, STAT. Shake it off, buddy. Be cool. Taste. We were on taste, boy were we, he was *tasting* me, and it is seriously freaking me out. Luckily, I'm so surprised even my libido is jet lagged, so this isn't as potentially embarrassing a situation as it could be... yet.
I gotta talk him out of this. Us out of this. This is *not* a good idea, Jim. Trust me on this. We don't wanna go there-- because we might not be able to come back, and then what?
I am not prepared to be out on the curb, man. No apartment, no research subject, no Sentinel, no Jim... You are so special man, important to me like nobody else, we're beyond that, right, we go way past friends, closer than brothers-- so sex would be a really bad idea.
Not like it's repulsive or anything, that's not what I mean, but *sex*,Jim, with *you*! It's just too weird. Traditionally, I've been into women, yeah, but that's not why I'm freaking out here. It's not because you're a man, Jim-- it's because you're... You.
I know you want to think this is about love, and you're totally right, it is, and I love you, I L-O-V-E you Jim, I really do, maybe I'm even *in* love with you... but that still doesn't mean that I should be sleeping with you. That I can touch you, *really* touch you, in a completely non-platonic manner, okay?
Deep breath, here it goes. Jesus, Jim, let me talk you out of this...
"Taste," I say conversationally, even though I'm pretty sure if I let go of Jim's arm I'm gonna kiss the linoleum, "Taste. Okay. So... what do I taste like, Jim?"
he licked me he licked ME he *licked* me
Oh man, Blair, that is SO not helping. Calm. Calm down. Easy. Block the thought. Block it, ignore it, shut it right the hell off, do NOT dwell on that, I need to talk myself out of this, I can do this. I can. I will. I am.
I give him my best neutral "observer" look, and he just grins and shakes his head.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Chief? We're not testing *me*."
I nod, I'm completely agreeable here, let's stick to the plan, sure, I gotcha, Jim.
"Okay, so... why don't you get some stuff from the fridge and I'll close me eyes again and we can jump right in to the whole tasting thing." I roll my head a little, take a few shadow punches, shimmy around and work the kinks out, and then I sit back down on the stool and Jim makes his way to the fridge.
I close my eyes and swallow as softly as I possibly can, and try to bring my pulse rate back to something approaching less than Imminent-Hard-On-Followed-By-Heart-Attack-And-Death.
"All righty. Whatcha got for me, Jim?"
He hands me a napkin.
"Lick the tip of your finger and kind of mash it around there, Chief. Tell me what you recognize."
I'm not doing well, here. My finger tip is in and out of my mouth so fast I hardly register the temperature change, because, man, in NO way do I want to lead him on here. I find the pile of... ewwww. Cold and... slimy. It's soaking through the napkin. It's wiggly... I'm confused. Was this test touch or taste? If it's not powder, why would I...
Jim, you sly dog.
I slip my finger back in my mouth again, and this time, I let it hang around, enjoy the ambiance. Fine, man, you want me to suck my finger, finger sucking there shall be.
Wait... what about my plan? What about "not gonna lead him on"?
Yeah.
Well.
"Strawberry jelly," I say.
Then I open my eyes. Jim's are boring into me like diamond drill bits, and I will tell you, it's *unnervering* to be the object of this kind of scrutiny.
"Jim? Maybe we better stop. Try this again under more... uh... controlled conditions."
He shakes his head. Implacable. Oh man, he is gonna *press* the issue. Maybe it's time to spill my guts here.
"Jim... I'm feeling a little... weird about this. Uncomfortable. I mean, this isn't just a test here, is it? Jim?"
He's got this vague look on his face, like he's trying to remember what he needs to put on his grocery list, like he's forgotten to pick up his dry cleaning, and I'm really nervous.
Then he says, "Sorry." In the softest possible voice, I've never heard that voice, ever, and he tries to smile, and reaches out to ruffle my hair, then changes his mind and draws away again. The he wanders toward the stairs and then jogs right up to the loft.
What the *heck* is going on?
I have such a bad feeling about this, like I've offended him somehow. Maybe I should have just played along? I mean, it's not like he was going to hurt me or anything. I *know* that, but man, it's just hard to *process* all this right now and... I should be talking to him about this.
I don't want it to get shrugged off. This is important. This is about his feelings and mine, and we're just gonna have to hash it out.
I make my way up the stairs. I don't really have to call up, he could hear me even if I was doing my sneaky best to be Stealth!Blair, but it's polite, it's what you do, so I say, "Hey, Jim?" And I climb a few steps, stop, and call his name again.
"Yeah? What is it, Sandburg?" He sounds *less* than enthused, but fuck it, I'm not going to let this fester, I'm just *not*.
He's stretched out on the bed, all sculpted profile and anatomy text in one, and I sit down on the bed next to him.
He sighs and closes his eyes.
"Is this gonna take long?" he says, and I shrug.
"I don't know. Maybe. I think we need to talk."
"I figured."
"Man, I'm sorry I went off on you down there. I hared out. I admit it, and I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what my deal is, but I just want you to know that if I hurt your feelings, in *any* way, I am sincerely, deeply, totally sorry about that."
"Blair, you didn't hurt my feelings," and the way he says it makes me thinks he appreciates this, appreciates the apology, but that he's also lying, that I really *did* hurt his feelings, and man this is really not going well at *all*.
"Look, Jim, this isn't really... I mean, it's not like I don't... oh, man. Look. I haven't been completely ... forthcoming about everything with you, all right?"
Those eyes, clearer than water, pin me to the bed.
"What do you mean?"
I take a deep breath, and then another one, and then I stop, because I am going to hyperventilate if I don't watch out, I feel a grade "A" panic attack coming on and I realize that I'm bouncing my knee so hard the whole bed is jouncing along with me and with a supreme act of will I *stop* and I focus and I blurt, "It's not like I don't know that you love me."
There's a flicker, something so fast that maybe I don't even see it, but it *looks* like... it looks like pride. Like he's proud of me for knowing it. Or maybe proud of himself for being able to let me know it.
"And I want you to know, Jim, I want you to *know* that I love you. That I really love you. I mean it. I do. Love, man."
He's nodding, slowly, like he can hear the gigantic complicated "BUT" clause coming on, and so I just motor *on* and say, "But the idea of us being more... more than friends... Well. It scares the hell out of me."
There. I said it. Oh man, I feel *awful*. I feel terrible for saying that, like I'm lying. But I'm *not*. I am completely serious when I say that the idea of sleeping with Jim just blows my *mind*. This is not to say that I don't find the idea completely absorbing, at the same time.
But I can't say that. Oh, man, I *can't*-- but I should. This is Jim,right, and he deserves the utmost honesty. Even if it's fucking *excruciating*.
Okay.
"Okay. Jim, wait a minute, all right, before I hurt your feelings again, lemme say this: I kind of *do* want to be... uh... more than... *more*." His hand is closing on my forearm and I can't really look at him, and he's reassuring me even though his guts are probably seizing up, I mean, if some girl gave *me* this line, I would be *shredded*. "I mean, it's not like you're not beautiful, I mean it, you're so beautiful Jim, inside and out, I'm not saying I don't find you attractive, not at *all*, but... But..."
The hand on my wrist is warm, comforting. I hear him shift on the bed, and I am concentrating *fiercely* on not letting that prickle behind my eyes turn into a trickle.
He cups my face, and it's *so* gentle, man, this, more than anything makes me just want to chuck every pretense and worry and analyzation and just bury my face in Jim's *massive* chest and bawl my friggin' eyes out, and then just *stay* there, but he pats my cheek and kind of nudges me off the bed.
"Blair. Blair, c'mon. Chin *up*, here. This isn't the end of the world, Chief. Everything's fine."
I open my eyes and he's standing up, towing me down the stairs, handing me my jacket, and for a moment that lasts ten icy desolate *years* I'm sure he's gonna toss me out on my ass like I completely deserve, for not having the guts to up front with him, and then he claps my cheek again, snaps his fingers in my ear.
"Sandburg? Earth to Sandburg. Snap out of it, huh? I said: Where do you wanna go for dinner?"
* * *
The guy's been staring at me since we got to the Falafel Hut. Not in a hostile way-- in fact his eyes skate back to his hummus every time I try to link up with him. He looks furtive, and Blair has never been what I'd call shy. For a while I was worried that he was scared of me-- now I'm pretty sure that it's nothing like that. It's like he's... *admiring* me. There's no other word for it.
I give up trying to establish meaningful eye contact and just watch his mouth. He spreads some hummus on a triangle of pita and lifts it to that... That *mouth*. Generous, sensual, my god, I've never seen *anyone* with a mouth like that. His mouth doesn't look soft to me-- it looks muscular actually, busy, tough, mobile... a mouth made for love.
I haven't spent as much time thinking about it as you might guess. This whole attraction thing, the recognition part, anyway, is kind of new to me, here. But I have reason to believe that Sandburg's mouth is capable of great skill.
I say this because I have it on authority from a reliable source.
Me.
First off, let me assure you, it was accidental. I was coming back early from an overnight Gang Awareness seminar-- I'd had a difference of opinion with the hotel bed. It smelled *rank*, and I figured a two hour drive each way would be worth a few hours of real rest in my own bed.
I was in the home stretch, maybe a couple of blocks away from the loft, and I tuned in to see if Blair had gotten in yet when I heard him... And a woman.
From the acoustics, I figured that they were in that love wagon of a Corvair. Blair wasn't saying a whole lot, but I could hear his heart, surprisingly steady if the yelps, sighs and moans from the girl with him meant what I thought they did.
Blair was utterly content, if his pulse rate was to be believed. Who would have thought that Blair on the Couch At Home After Dinner, a Beer and a Winning Jag's Game sounded the same as Blair Going Down on a Girl in His Car?
The girl now, her heart was racing, and she sounded like she was thrashing around a bit for good measure.
She sounded pretty damned happy. Ecstatic, even. She was shrieking his name by the time I'd driven past them, and I didn't have to dial up to hear it.
Not wanting to embarrass them, I drove to the Food Mart for a six of Sam Adams and a quart of soy milk. On the way back, I tried to sort out my feelings. Blair had a new girlfriend. Okay. Why was he doing her in his car instead of in his bed? That made me think about the last time he'd brought a girl home. Christine Hong. Well, not strictly true, he'd brought Amber and Maya back, but he hadn't planned to sleep with them.
Obviously, he didn't feel comfortable about bringing women back to a Sentinel's lair. He must have been trying to be polite. He also must have known that I could smell the sex on him anyway, but he was doing his best to be thoughtful.
By the time I'd come back, he'd driven her home. I parked and made my way into the loft, shucked my jeans and jerked off. Thinking about his heartbeat, and his mouth. Zeroing in on Blair's sheets so I could smell him when I came.
So his mouth is probably worth every stray thought I've had about it.
But I like everything, pretty much. He's a sunny little guy. Easy to spend time with. I don't want to mess that up. I want him around for as long as he'll stay. I don't want to spook him. Slow and steady wins the race, here. It's got to. I don't want to be running around this track by myself.
"Hey, bright eyes," I say, and he gives a guilty start, starts to laugh and then promptly chokes on his pita.
I stand up, reach across the table and pound him on the back while he squirms around laughing and trying to catch his breath.
"Hey! Enough, man! My lungs'll cave in. I'm okay," and his hands ward me off.
I sit down again.
"You had me worried there, Chief."
"Yeah," he agrees, and he's still giggling under his breath, those little white teeth showing.
He's been warming up to me all night-- gradually getting back into our pre-eyebrow-licking groove. He's settling again.
I catch him peeking at me, and he looks kind of amazed. Like he's never seen me before. Like I'm a celebrity he's sharing an elevator with.
You know, he took the enhanced senses completely in stride-- nobody else would have ever believed I had super sight, taste, etc., without some serious proof. I mean, he had nothing but a stranger's medical complaints to go on and he instantly accepted the existence of my sensory overdrive.
But this, this love thing, he's really grappling with it.
I'll tell you something: love isn't always what you think you want. It's not always a diamond ring in a box. Sometimes it's a guy whose bottles of shampoo are crowding you out of your own bathroom.
He's quiet on the ride home-- introspective, I guess. At the door, I go to hang up my coat and he grabs my arm.
"Jim," he whispers, and I pat his cheek again, teasing him, but it turns into me just cupping his face, feeling the stubble scrape along my palm, my thumb stroke his cheek. For a long time we just kind of stare at each other, his breathing shallow and rapid.
Before I can even think of moving my hand away, he closes his eyes, and covers my hand with his.
Just that little bit of contact spreads up my arm and across my shoulders and down my back until I feel warm all over, and almost shaking with anticipation.
He turns his head, and, still holding my hand, presses his mouth into my palm.
It's softer than I thought it would be, but I can feel the muscle beneath the warm surface of his lips.
I'm perfectly still, letting him take as long as he wants, and he kind of nuzzles up along the inside of my sweater, along my arm and when he reaches the crook of my elbow he *breathes* on me. I can feel the humidity of his breath cloud right through the knit and dance on the thin skin there and I make some sound, because he looks at me then.
He looks at me, and I think my heart stumbles a little. I'd stagger, but my knees are locked, and his eyes are... Jesus. The pupil is swallowing up the blue, and his mouth is hanging open just a little... He looks focused and turned on and seductive as hell.
Christ Jesus.
Blair Sandburg is coming on to me.
He shifts his hips a little, adjusting himself without taking his hands off my arm, and I can see the swell of his erection under his jeans. I can smell him now... he smells cloudy, thick. His arousal, I mean, it's like a fog, and the kid's churning out pheromones like a sex *factory*... I close my eyes, try to dial it down... I'm zoning a little, but I bring myself back from it when I feel him move into the curve of my arm and nestle up against me, burying his face in my chest.
I can feel his breath condensing on my left nipple. I'm wrapping my arms around him now, and I cup the back of his head with one hand. He's murmuring something, and I tune him in:
"Jim. Jim. Tighter, man. *Hold* me," and I do just as he says, hugging him so hard I'm worried I'll hurt him, but he sighs, just this amazing sound of contentment and he kind of burrows in some more. Blair's arms slip around me and he gives me this friendly little squeeze and I choke up a bit.
Then I clear my throat and swallow and just *hold* him.
I don't know how long we've been standing in the living room, but I'm ready to sit down now. Sitting is definitely next on the agenda. Because I know if I kiss him now I'll fall down. * * *
I lift my head, and I am treated to just the *nicest* thing-- it's Jim, and his eyes are closed, and he just looks... rapt. Blissed. His breath is even and slow and his head is cocked a little to the side, like he can hear someone playing a cello three blocks away, and I get this feeling, I *know* that he's listening to me. My heartbeat, my breathing, whatever, but he's tuned in to channel Blair and I am like, so *charmed*.
"Jim? I'm really enjoying this whole embracing thing, but do you think maybe we could sit down?"
His eyes kind of glide open, half mast, and he's looking down at me from under those lashes, kind of sleepy and this sweet smile just spreads across his face and he nods a little.
"Sure, Chief."
But he doesn't move. Not at *all* and so I kind of push at his hips and we sort of shuffle over to the couch and then the cushions plump against his calves and he remembers to sit down. His hands are holding my waist, so I tug on them and then drop down beside him.
I feel remarkably calm, right? I mean, I am definitely hard, oh yes, I am sporting a *very* respectable bone here, but I feel weirdly relaxed. At ease. Like I could go to sleep right here on the couch and just dream the *sweetest* dreams...
But who needs to dream them when you can live them?
Jim's still smiling at me, and I smile right back.
I chafe his hand a little between mine and ask him, "How do you feel?"
"Glad," he says.
Glad. For some reason this tickles me, and I start to laugh. His smile gets wider and he chuffs out a few sympathetic chuckles, but neither of us knows why we're laughing and so we stop after a while.
Jim reaches out with the hand I'm *not* holding and he touches my hair, just lightly, and then he tucks some behind my ear and takes his hand back.
"How do you feel?" he asks, and his voice is sober, careful.
"Like I want to kiss you," I answer, and then I freeze a little, because I hadn't known I was gonna say that, not until it was hanging in the air like a little word balloon in a Superman comic.
He looks pleased, and he drops his eyes, kind of shy like, and here he is *charming* me again, and I reach up take cup his face in my hands.
"Jim." My voice is rock steady, and this is exactly what I want. "Kiss me, man."
Those bluer-than-blue eyes are locking on mine, and now he looks a little wary, a little insecure.
"You sure, Blair?"
I can empathize with his wanting to give me an out. I mean, a hug, well we could rationalize that, we could shake it off in the morning, pretend that it meant less than it did, but a kiss...
Before I even answer, he drops his head and lays one on me.
Hell, he *knows* me, and he wants me, and *this* moment is too important to gum up with a whole lot of second guessing, and oh god Jim is *kissing* me...
I guess he doesn't mind the hummus on my breath.
His tongue is stroking my lips and his hands are cupping my shoulders and I kind of knot my fingers in Jim's shirt collar and drag him closer.
He's saying my name every time his lips lose contact with me, and it has got to be the single sexiest thing I've ever heard.
I am *tingling*, I'm gonna have *beard burn* for chrissakes and Jim has scooted me into his lap and I can *definitely* feel that he's deeply involved in the proceedings here, it feels like he's got a freakin' MagLite down there, and I spread my thighs a little and he *groans* and kind of surges up underneath me and I'm shivering and panting and just *ruining* my boxers, and then he slips his hands under my shirts, all three of them, and that makes *me* groan, and I press my face against his neck and concentrate on his hands, the way they skim up my ribs and trace down my spine and then up again, rubbing my shoulders and I loop my arms around his neck and just hang *on*.
* * *
Blair is a solid little guy. He's doing the bump and grind on my lap and I'm close to losing it, but I don't want to discourage him, so I try to shift him up a little, but he's sweaty now and my hands are slipping, so I take them out from underneath his shirt, and he makes this kind of mewling sound of disappointment and I say, "Blair, c'mon, easy, easy, let's get you out of this--" and he's got this demonic grin, and he's flipping the buttons out of the holes.
"Jim, you have *no* idea how much I want to feel you, man," and then two shirts are on the floor and he's wriggling out of the last one and I have a lap full of Blair again, only this time, he's tugging at *my* clothes. My sweater flies an impressive distance.
I should probably have expected enthusiasm... Blair is nothing if not enthusiastic, about any number of things, but still, it's flattering. A nice little ego boost for *this* cop, let me tell you.
With every button he undoes, I feel a kiss a little lower on my chest, and then he's working on my belt. I think I panic a little-- I clap my hand over his two busy ones, and he looks up, startled.
Then he has his hands resting on top of mine, and he says, softly, clearly, "Jim, we are ready for this."
I nod then, and let my hand fall away and he slithers my belt out of the loops and pops the button of my fly.
I take a deep breath.
We're ready.
* * *
Jim has me, like, *immobilized*. His left arm is *locked* around my shoulders and his right is dragging my jeans and boxers down. Incidently, I'm wearing my "lucky" blue plaid ones-- coincidence? I think not!
So I'm in his lap and I can feel the bald head of his cock nudge at the cheek of my ass, and it's like a stickshift that's been sitting in the desert sun, it's *that* hard, and *that* hot, and I'm wriggling all over the place, and *moaning*, right? Until he touches me, and it feels so good, I nearly swallow my own tongue.
That *giant* hand just covers me, and in like *three* strokes, I come so hard I think my ears will bleed, and then, underneath me, I can feel this *incredible* warmth, and then it kind of gooshes around and he's come, too.
Then his knees just go slack and I am dumped on my *ass*.
I'm laughing so hard I have trouble breathing, and I feel Jim scrabble at my arms and try to heft me back up into his lap, but the angle's bad, and my bones are now officially Jell-O, so I keep slipping through his fingers, and I try to stop giggling when I hear how *worried* Jim, sounds.
"Blair, I'm sorry, let me, I can't believe I *did* that! Did I hurt you? Are you--"
I kneel up, and grab at his knees so I won't tip over. So I'm propped up in the V of his legs, and I stroke his thighs, try to calm him down.
"Jim," I say, in my most reassuring voice, "Jim, let me *swear* to you, I have *never* been more okay.
He looks so *concerned*, and he reaches out and cups my chin.
"Really?" And he looks kind of bashful and amazed, and yup, there's that flash of pride again, boys and girls.
"Really," I answer, and I grin and I lick his wrist. Then I take both his hands and kind of wind 'em in my hair and then I lean over and start licking him some more, just cleaning up the spill, *tasting* Jim and the *miraculously* soft skin of his now limp, but still really impressive, penis.
Giving head has always been one of my specialties. There is *nothing* like a girl when she is just *gone*, beyond all other stimuli, you know what I'm saying? When her hips just hitch up to kiss you back, and you're both just speaking in *tongues*, man.
I can't wait to give Jim a whirl.
* * *
He's licking me clean. I'm still shuddery and stupid with climax, and the feel of his tongue on my over-sensitized and still dialed up soft-off is making me grit my teeth it's so intense.
Gently, gently, I tug his head up, and he's smiling at me.
"Chief, I'm loving that, but you'll have to lay off for a while..."
His eyebrows climb and he pushes himself up, using my knees for leverage.
"Man, what was I *thinking*! You must be, like, *supremely* heightened, right? Geez, every touch must be like *murder* on your senses right now..."
I cover his hands with mine.
"Blair. *Blair.* Before you pack your bags for your guilt trip, here, can I tell you something?"
He nods, eyes focused on my face, alert.
"I love the way you touch me, okay?" I lean forward and kiss him, and I'm surprised by how easy it is. I was worried I might be squeamish about it, or that he would be. I can taste Blair's saliva, and my own come, kind of like... well, snot is the only thing coming to mind, but it's not bad, really. It's not as gross as it sounds. "Not just the sexy stuff... Although I'd be lying if I didn't say that what we just did wasn't topping the list right now," I tell him, and I bump his head up a bit with my nose so I can lick at the soft *soft* skin there under his chin.
Blair has a little double chin. It's not really noticeable unless he's got his head tucked down, but it's there and I've wanted to touch it for about as long as I've known him. It makes him seem really young, somehow. Vulnerable.
He's making this happy little sighing sound, and so I quit talking and just lose myself in touching him.
After a while, I can hear him laughing, and I snap out of it and sit back.
"That was *soooo*... So! Man, I don't know what it was, but I was into it, okay?"
"Feels good, huh?" I smile and give him a few more strokes with my tongue, just to feel the way the muscles in his jaw move when he starts smiling back.
"Good!? Yeah, you could say that. But good is like, *such* an *understatement*-- It feels *amazing*, just *warm* and... not really like sex at all... but more like... Like love, man. It feels like you love me."
I pull away and cup his face in my hands.
"That's because I do, Blair."
I feel him nodding, and I tighten my hands so he's still.
"I love you, Sandburg. I'm not kidding."
The guy looks a little terrified, and I'm worried about that so I let his face go and heft him up by the arms onto the couch next to me. He has his hands on me, so tight they hurt a little.
"You aren't. I know you're not. But do you think you can love me... For like, a really long time?"
"All my life, chief."
I'm not sure that's the answer he wants, but I'm sure that's what I wanted to say, what *I* want.
"Oh *man*", he says, and he's got his face buried against my neck, and he's wrapped around me so tight I'm starting to fear for my extremities. He draws back after a minute though, blue eyes stern and wary.
"You'd better know what you're getting into, Jim. I mean, we are talking *serious* commitment, here. Life partner stuff, and are you sure you're ready for that? Are you sure you can handle me being around every *day*, for the next six decades?"
"Sandburg, what are you getting at?"
He looks on the verge of being pretty upset, and I'm not sure what I said or did to wind him up like this.
"Okay, okay, if you think we're going too fast, then maybe we can slow it down a little--"
"Jim. That is *not* what I'm saying, man."
"Then what is it? You're upset. Tell me why."
"Because I want to believe you, man. I want to believe that you'll want me around for, like, *ever*, okay? I want to believe it, but I don't know if I can. I mean, my whole life, right, my whole life has been me hoping that someone would like me enough to let me stay. Okay? To just let me *stay*."
I'm not really sure where this came from, but I'm not stupid, and I can guess it has a lot to do with Naomi and her gypsy ways.
"Blair. Listen to me. *Listen*," and his clouded eyes make the effort to meet mine. "We've been together for three years. My marriage lasted, what, a year and a half? What we have... I've never felt anything like it, Blair, and I know it means I love you. I love you, and I'll always want you with me. I swear it. I'll take an ad in the paper if you think it'll help."
He laughs at that, eyes bright again.
"Seriously? What about a billboard... skywriting? Courtship rituals have really gone all out since the industrial age. Extravagance is where it's *at*..."
I gather him up and hug him, resting my chin on the top of his curly head, and I can feel him nuzzling my adam's apple. He pushes against my chest so that he can tip his face up to see me.
"Thanks." And he kneels up and kisses my temple, this one, reverent kiss, and I close my eyes and memorize it.
"Blair?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we go to bed now?"
"I don't know, Jim," he grins, and shakes his curly head. "I think I'd pull something important if I tried to carry you up those stairs."
"Think of it as a test: Strength Levels of Post-Orgasmic Anthropologists..."
"What say we test recovery time instead, big guy?"
That sounds like a plan.
END
