Rose and Vine

Genre: Twilight - Hurt/Comfort / Smut
Characters: Jasper
Details: AH, Slash
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Strong Language, Sexual Content,
Post Word Count: 6714
Status: Completed
Beta'd By: Ilsuocantante
Contest Entry For: Slash/Backslash

Summary: "A dark club, dark memories, with only music to sooth his hurts, will a moment with a stranger change everything? For the slash/backslash contest. AH and yes SLASH be warned."

“And the love you gave was way down south

Baby, I was born just to kiss your mouth

You want me to say...”

The sound of the second warm up band starting to play has me checking my watch again for what feels like the fiftieth time since getting here.

“Where is this guy?” I mumble mostly to myself, seeing as I’m half hidden from the few people still loitering in the little lobby. It’s nice here in my little corner. The plush blood red velvet sofa I’m practically enveloped in is angled in such a way that I can see out to the main entrance, past the two bouncers standing guard at the rose and vine covered wrought iron gates.

This club has always been a favorite of mine. The foyer where I’ve now been waiting for at least forty minutes has dark, almost charcoal colored walls. They’re painted with that faux suede paint, and feel delicious against my knuckles as they graze up and down the wall where my arm is rocking up and down, outstretched across the mahogany half shelf that wraps around the room.

My eyes again drift out the doors, waiting and watching for whoever this Cullen69 on eBay was that was supposed to meet me here over an hour ago.

You’d think for a guy who was so desperate to see this band he was willing pay three times the original ticket price, he’d at least be here on time.

I hate being late. I like maintained, ordered punctuality and if I was going to pay forty dollars for a night of music from a band I’ve adored forever, then I'm going to make sure I get my money's worth. Starting with arriving at least twenty minutes before the doors opened to ensure my place in line. I love listening to the warm up bands, the headliner usually picked them so it's in my opinion that they are worth seeing. Moreover, it's a great way to discover new sounds and add to my increasingly insane amount of cd’s and records that litter not only my living room but the spare room as well.

The bass is literally pumping through the wall and inadvertently through the high back of the chair I’m sitting in as the second band leads into a rousing version of “Paint it Black” that, if I lean my back hard enough against the stuffing, I can feel vibrating through my body.

This fucking sucks. I should have just given the ticket away. Begged someone to come with me instead of being stuck here waiting for this asshole.

My body is starting to crave the beat, crave the sound and rush of adrenaline that hearing music I love played live inspires. All this should have been so much easier. All of this was going to be so much easier, until it all went to shit two weeks ago. I picked up my scotch from the small glass tabletop where it had been covering an ancient black and white photo of the Lizard King himself.

That is another reason why I love this club; there are all these amazing photos of bands that have played here over the years, collaged on the surfaces of every table in each small grouping of chairs. It is a reason why he and I met in the first place, both of us absorbed in pushing around other people’s drinks, trying to see which bands we knew, which famous faces were familiar until our heads met right over a vibrantly garish photo of Barry Manilo from the seventies.

Not that I’d find that picture here, no, this table was the very furthest from the Manilo table and by proxy thoughts of him at all. Downing the last half of the amber liquid – my fourth of the evening so far - I barely felt the burn as it flowed down my throat and warmed my belly. The ache in my heart though, the hurt that only expounded in ferocity when I thought about him and why I was here on my own was heat enough without the alcohol’s affects.

I reached into my skinny black jeans again, lifting my ass from the seat to wiggle my fingers into my pocket just enough to pull my iPhone out. Still no messages, still no missed calls. Not from the Cullen69 dude or him. Not him. Not him in over two weeks. Maybe he’d meant it this time, maybe our last screaming match had indeed been our last.

That was us though - he and me – we’d argue, both of us getting louder and louder with each mostly stupid accusation until one of us would storm out. One of us would slam a door, causing it to bounce back from the frame with the intensity of our physical actions. A few hours later, one of us would walk back in through that same exact door. Apologies on either side would come next, “I don’t care that you never remember to take the garbage out” or, “It's fine that you forgot to write down that message from my boss and I missed that 8am meeting.” To, “Please forgive me, you’re the only one,” and, “I can’t breathe without you”

Then the touching would occur. Clothes flying off our bodies as if thought alone had set them free. Fingertips recovering familiar curves and flat planes. Lips caressed soft skin, tongues tasting secret places that only each other had been privy too in so very long. The heat and warmth and push and pull and intense blinding white flashes of lightening and sound becoming heartbeats racing toward the inevitable explosion of complete and utter love.

Not this time though. Two weeks, one day, eighteen hours and forty three minutes had passed and that door had remained open. He hadn’t walked back in and closed it behind him, closing us back upon ourselves to touch, and feel and taste and reconnect all that was good about us both. All that being together for the past five years to the day had let us learn about each other.

Sighing, I shove the phone deep back into my pocket, not wanting to give in to the tingle in my fingers that demand that I click through to the photos of us together. To the last picture I’d taken of him, lying on the hammock on the deck. A few stray curls falling across his face, shifting back and forth with the rhythmic inhale and exhale of his breath. His hands lay on top of a near tattered Rolling Stone magazine, part of his endless collection, nearly half of which had ended up mixed in with my records over the years. This one being important because it had an amazing interview with Eddie Vedder in it from years ago. He was a massive Pearl Jam fan, being a Seattle native himself.

Even without closing my eyes I can remember exactly what clothes he was wearing. The faded, what once could have been navy blue “Banner’s Gas” holey drill shirt from summers learning his mechanics trade when he was a teenager. It was buttoned wrong and showed off a little of smattering of soft hairs that led to the veritable Garden of Eden between his legs.

He’d gone commando under the sinfully tight, threadbare light denim jeans that had holes in all the right places. They had grease spots all over the thighs from where he’d been changing the oil in my 1951 F1 Ford truck. Something he’d talked me into buying even though it guzzled gas but, at the time, he’d thought I was hot and when he whispered in my ear about how he was going to bend me over the candy orange colored hood and fuck me silly… I handed over my check really damn fast.

He had that now, he’d driven off in my car, our car as it had become with all the tweaking and increasing torque and adding this here and that there he’d done over the past two years. I was left with my scooter that I hadn’t used since we bought the car. My little Italian aqua Mod Squad scooter, as he’d called it. He’d teased me so much about driving that around town, that it basically screamed queen and I’d tease him back about his huge jeep that he never took anywhere near dirt, insinuating that he was a bear.

My body slackens back into the comforting arms of the wing-backed chair. I miss fighting with him. I miss the way the tendons on his neck would strain, the tightness to his lips and even the little white spittle that would form in the corner when he really got going. I miss the way he would talk with his hands, everything emphasized right down to the smallest point. I miss the way when he would shake his head, disagreeing with whatever I said in return, his curls would bounce all over the place, like the head of an old shaggy mop.

I miss having to buy new china every time he “helped” put away the dishes because he was the world’s most terrible klutz. His large fingers never quite seemed to grasp anything dainty like that, yet put him in the bedroom and his touch was as gentle as a feather, reverent and loving. The calluses on his hands would provide friction that would only ever serve to turn me on more and more. Goose flesh would pepper my skin as just the pads of his fingertips would ghost over my hips, the lightest of pressure over that spot just to the left of my navel that he knew would cause me to moan and stiffen.

God I miss his hands.

I fumble with the glass in my own hands, checking my watch again and realizing my little angst-filled reminiscing has taken up another twenty minutes. Time for another drink, because if he doesn’t get here by the time I drink that, I’m going through the doors and listening to what I came for. I am going to enjoy the music I’ve been practically bouncing to see live for the longest time. And I am not going to remember that the ticket I am giving this Cullen69 guy was actually supposed to be for him, for our anniversary. To celebrate us.

Pulling myself free from the chair that definitely would have the imprint of my ass in it for a long time yet, I headed over to the bar where I’ve already been a few times. I signal the waitress, practically an old friend by now, as she’s been the only one to serve me all night, including when I’d walked in on my own as soon as the doors opened.

“Same again, sad sack?” she winks and I smirk because really, I didn’t have the time or energy to get annoyed with a stranger giving me a nickname. Let alone one that let me know I'm not doing the greatest job of hiding the permanent weight that is sitting over my heart. I nodd, and she disappears for a moment, collecting a new glass.

I turn toward the gates, bouncing a coaster against the bar top, and again there are just the bouncers. The street is now an inky darkness beyond the dim green light the colored bulb above them gives off. This was fucking ridiculous. I wanted to come here tonight, listen to music and just forget for a day that things have changed so completely in my life.

Maybe I’ll meet someone; maybe we'd share a smile, our bodies would accidentally touch as we sway to the beat, he’'d raise a brow, I’d nod in return. We’d eventually move together, new skin to explore, new scent, new lips to nibble on. I'd try to focus on getting happy and laid and not on the knot that appears to have permanently twisted itself over and over in my stomach at just the thought that I’ll have to find someone again. Share myself with someone again. Wake up to someone else’s body wrapped around mine. Feel safe and secure and wanted again.

I miss the way he’d nuzzle my neck with his nose, burrowing into that special place that he always did right before he fell asleep.

The waitress brings over my scotch and I pay her, her dark eyes looking into mine with what could only be pity, or worry. How someone I barely know could look at me like that pisses me off even further. I'm not here to wallow, I’ve done enough of that. I’ve eaten enough Chubby Hubby and raw cookie dough to put on five pounds the first week he didn't come home. Then had to kill myself at Black’s gym just to work it back off again.

No. This was my night, my way of putting him behind me. My way of moving on, as much as every fiber of my being told me not to. I needed to enjoy tonight, I needed to feel good again.

Fuck you Cullen69, I’ll leave your ticket with the bouncers and I’m going in.

I quickly sent off a text to the stranger's cell, the only form of contact I have with whoever this secret man is. Instead of slowly sipping my scotch, I slam it down fast, wink at the annoyingly nice waitress with the keen eyes and make my way over to the gates to see the bouncers. I know them both from Black's gym and with little explanation; they agree to hold the ticket in case the asshat comes. I check my old black leather jacket into the cloakroom and head for the doors that open into the sunken first level of the club.

Blinking hard a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the light I realize that I’ve walked in just as the second act has finished. There’s a flurry of movement on the stage to my right, instruments being replaced, pedals shifting around, the next band's needs being catered to by one really big muscular guy and three slightly smaller versions all dressed in black.

I head over to one of the many balustrades that line the outer circle of the dance floor, feeling a little self-conscious because everyone is pretty much talking in the small groups that they came in with. I look around, hoping to see someone else like me, maybe another single in a world of couples and triples that I can possibly strike up a conversation with, and come up empty. Leaning my head and shoulder against one of the wooden beams, my left foot taps restlessly where it crossed over my right ankle, pressing the large buckle on my boot into the soft leather of the other.

I never used to be this way, nervous in a crowd on my own. Even way back when I first started clubbing, dancing and drinking and taking far too many drugs when I first came out, I was a talker. It didn’t matter who, it didn’t matter where or what they looked like, I had always been a talker. My mom often said I could talk under water with a mouth full of marbles. I was her sunshine that lit up a room with my very presence. If only she could see me now, all dark and broody.

I miss the way he’d pull me out of my shell, never letting me get into a funk.

I can’t even believe how emo I’m being tonight. I should have stayed at home if I was going to let the black cloud I’ve been secluded in since he left hang around me even here. I straighten up, making a conscious effort to lift my mood. I put a slight smile on my face, and check the room again. The roadies are nearly finished now and the buzz in the audience is palpable, all waiting for that moment that someone we know from the band will appear on stage. I scan the room again, and stop at a profile that looks a hell of a lot familiar. I blink, looking again, and it is gone, replaced by someone that is sort of his height, sort of his build, with hair sort of similar to the sex hair I could never keep my hands out of.

I miss the curl of his hair tickling my legs as he took me in deep within the velvety warm caverns of his mouth.

Maybe I can get laid tonight. I haven’t even touched myself since he screamed that I was only ever about the sex before he’d left. I didn’t want to take away from the memory of how my body reacted to his touch, his lips and teeth grazing over sensitive pebbled flesh, his tongue pressing against me, his hands guiding my body on top of him at a pace that drove us to the edge together. I wanted to keep every one of those little details, I wanted to store them away in case I never got to experience them again. My finger traces absently over my bottom lip, recalling with clarity the last time he sucked it between his own, gently nibbling and driving me into a frenzy that had resulted in the third coffee table in a month being broken under our combined weight.

I miss being fucked hard and fast and feeling him come inside me, shuddering and panting, his eyes never leaving mine.

The crowd suddenly erupts and my eyes drift forward to the stage on which the drummer and bass player have already taken their position. Everyone is surging forward, keen to get closer to the sweat that will inevitably fly off the band and hit at least a few people in the front row. I let them move me too, leaving my people watching post and settling into the throng. Just another nameless face amongst a like-minded group, all here for one reason. The band completes a quick sound check, and then a cacophony of cheers and noise rises as the lead singer flits up on the stage.

He’s beautiful in that grungy “I haven’t shaved in a few days and I’ve just rolled out of bed leaving behind two very satisfied ladies who passed out from the sheer ecstasy that my radiant cock alone brought them” way He looks even better in person than in the few magazine features I’ve seen; sexier without the makeup and crap he was wearing in their last music video. I hear a few women beside me commenting on his button fly jeans and how tight they are, almost painted onto his skin. One says in a very nasally tone that she wonders if he’s got anything else on under there. I fight the urge to say with the way the shadows play over his obvious package, I’d doubt it.

I miss his jealousy. I miss him getting all fired up if I commented on someone being hotter than him. I miss saying things, pushing all the right buttons that had me up against an alley wall. His thick, fingers roughly digging into my ass, as he plunged his wet, hot mouth down on me, relaxing his throat and taking me deeper than anyone I’d ever known before.

I rearrange myself discreetly, not having to worry too much about who can see from where I am surrounded by people in the middle of the floor. The drummer taps out a count and then the sound, the melody poures over us all, fusing us as one emotional sponge feeding off what the music alone gives us. I sway and rock, pumping my fist in time to the beat. The bass thunders through my body, my rib cage feels like it can't contain the extra pressure from the outside source. My heart rate accelerates as I sing the words to songs I’ve been singing along to for years. The feeling of camaraderie, of living in a moment where everyone is here for the same thing, everyone filling with sound and song is exhilarating.

Fuck Cullen69 and making me wait. Fuck this, fuck him. I am here because I want to be here. I have looked forward to this concert for far too long to let his ghost affect me anymore. As the last song fades into the next, I let myself go. I close my eyes, allowing my body to move to the beat, move to the joy that being here amongst all these like-minded people brings out in me. Everyone here to worship at the band’s combined sound.

I move.

I sing.

I scream.

I feel.

And I don’t think anymore.

At some point, I realize someone is behind me, mirroring my every move. One moment I am shaking to the fast beat of one of the more up-tempo songs, the next there is this presence, this heat at my back that isn’t from the four teenagers squealing there previously. This is... male. This is my chest wracking with palpitations, my cock twitching awake, excitement pulsing through my veins. This is me slowing down to move with him. My hip jutts left, I feel his copy. I twist forward on my right knee; he is a fraction behind me. It is a game of push and pull to the beat of something that is fast becoming a pulse between us both.

I purposely lean back, wanting to see if what I feel is more than the wicked imagination I’ve been known to have before. He moves a fraction closer, but not enough. I can’t feel him the way in which my body is virtually vibrating with need. So close, and yet so tantalizingly out of reach. I want to reach back, I want to turn around and see whoever it is, but the proximity of the crowd boxing us in makes it impossible.

His right hand presses on my hip, fingers splayed across my stomach and I feel his thumb pulling me backwards as he tugs on my belt loop. My body fits easily against his, like it's meant to be there, it feels so familiar, yet so different. My skin lights up at every point that his meets mine. My hip, my shoulder, my right knee. I am completely enamored by this stranger and I haven’t even seen his face. It is dark, only the strobe and stage lights flashing multicolored hues light the room at irregular intervals.

I should feel weird that this stranger is having such an effect on me. I should push him away; rid myself of his intrusion in my bubble of personal space. Yet I don't; I lean into his form even more. This is new and different and I feel… I feel amazing. I feel wanted, and excited by the complete and utter unknown that this is. Sure I’ve had my own share of one night stands, nameless faces that could suck and fuck and take care of my needs when I was younger. Then I’d found him though and I didn’t need them anymore. We had each other; we learned what made each other tick. Explored each other so fully - our body's secrets that even we didn’t know about ourselves - the other had discovered.

I wonder what secrets I can learn about this one, or what secrets about me I’ll share with him.

Dancing so close like this, hips swaying to the beat, his scent washing over me, stronger with our proximity than the rest of the beer, sweat, and perfume that lingers from the crowd around us. He is sweet and musky as his lips brush over the skin at the juncture where my neck and shoulder meet. The fresh, citrus scent is so familiar, and as I twist my neck to the side, giving his lips more skin to investigate, I realize what it is.

Tangerine and something fruity, it always reminds me of summer picnics in the late afternoon at my parent’s lake house. I’d know that scent anywhere, it is what I’ve been wearing for the last few years now, since he mentioned it on our second date. Tommy Hilfiger cologne, I even have it on now. I feel his breath, cool on my heated skin as his tongue explores further north, lathing the skin where the vein there pulses in time to my rapid heartbeat. His groan rumbles over my flesh, sending bolts of need straight to my cock that is already hard, practically tapping against the denim confines that these stupid jeans I’ve worn have trapped it in.

I place my hand over his at my hip, the other I reach up and thread into his hair. Oh god his hair! It is soft and feels like silk under my fingertips. It is that beautiful length between short and too long, enough that when his teeth find purchase on the small pad of flesh at the bottom of my ear, I can close my hand into a fist and still grip it hard. His every touch, his warmth surrounds my body as I pull him closer. I want to be enveloped in it all. I haven’t felt this alive in so long. So beautiful because he is here, this unknown already worshiping my skin. This stranger whose fingers are pressing me back into his hips, where I can feel how much he wants me, what I am doing to him just by being here right now.

I grind my ass back against him. He groans, the sound vibrating across the back of my neck. I am on fire where we are skin to skin. Need burning through my veins and unraveling the knots that have built up since he walked out the door. I think, this could be good, this could be great... then slowly but surely I feel him pulling me backwards. This could be fucking amazing.

I lick my lips, stepping back through the crowd whilst his tongue and teeth continue licking and nipping at every square inch of my skin that is uncovered. His fingertips move in a deliciously slow torturous pace to the unmistakable bulge between my legs. I am so turned on that he is doing this, that I am doing this, here in the crowded room with a man whose name I don’t even know. My toes even tingle way down in the bottom of my boots. My breathing is harsh to my own ears as the noise of the audience and band seem to drift completely away. All I can focus on is the soft sounds he is making against my skin, the increasing beat of my heart and the feel of him behind me.

He brings us to a stop in a particularly darkened corner of the room. A guttural moan rolls from my throat as his hand that has just lightly sat between my legs suddenly squeezes my cock. My hips buck against him lightly, my hand fisting harder into his hair. The pulse of the music flowing around us only serves to increase my desire for more. I try to turn my head, wanting to just feel his lips that have so far tasted every inch of exposed skin available, but with a slight nudge of his nose, I turn back. Teeth pull against my earlobe as the first words to pass between us are whispered like a familiar caress that has me squirming against him.

"Please."

I nod my acquiescence as his thumb and forefinger trace up and down the outline that my quickly stiffening dick is creating against the thick material of its enclosure. Is it wrong to want him to just pull down the zip, grip me hard and make me come all over whatever the hell is in front of me right this second? Probably...

His tongue traces the shell of my ear with the lightest touch, and I can do nothing to stop the shiver of need that races up and down my spine. His hips grind into mine, sliding what appears to be quite the package against my ass. I push his hand harder against me, my body craving the friction that his light touches have so far only teased with. My gasps and sighs mix with the collective groans of the audience as one hand palms my dick, the other sliding under my shirt. Gentle fingertips teasing the tense skin on my stomach, grazing over every hard earned dip and groove that over fifty sit ups every morning before my three mile jog have created.

Soft lips leave lingering, almost reverent touches up and down my jaw, I yearn to feel them upon my own but every time I lean in, he pulls back. I can feel the word against my neck, my shoulder, that tender spot at the nape of my neck. I want to feel that word against my own chapped skin that my tongue had created, licking over my lips as every muted fuck and oh god falls from them. I give in to his demands, if his words are only meant for my skin then that's where they will stay.

My hand moves instead, leaving his silky tresses to slide over cotton covered taught muscles that flex and relax as his fingertips trace random patterns. In one moment of clear thinking through my lust induced haze, I actually think they are words. I find bare skin just above his elbow, his flesh as heated as my own as I follow along tendons, reaching his hand just as it slides up my sternum. My head falls back against his shoulder as his thumb brushes over my nipple ring, a move that sends a bolt of want straight to my dick. I press myself against his hand, and somehow in amongst all the teasing, this heady cloud of want that he's created, I miss him unzipping my pants. His warm hand is finally touching the silk over steel of my rock hard cock, finally free from the denim and the cotton of my boxer shorts. I shudder, struggling to get enough air into my lungs to prevent me passing out from the realization.

He was really going to do this. I was going to let him do this. A hand job, here, in the back of a not so seedy club with at least three hundred people and a live band in the room. My eyes shoot open as his thumb brushes against the underside of my dick, rubbing the precum that has been pooling at the tip around the swollen head. My fingers wind through his at my chest, trapping them over my thundering heart as his hips rock against mine in time to the movement of his hand, pumping me in just the right way. My toes tingle, the feeling traveling up my calves and thighs, causing my muscles to twitch as he alternates between the lightest of touches and then squeezing around me. It was like he already knew exactly how I want to be touched.

The beat of the music around us ebbs and flows as his hand teases me, his sweet breath tantalizing my skin, his tongue's fiery touch, all searing their memory into my flesh. I mumble incoherently as the knot that had lain in the pit of my stomach turns into a spring, a coil of impending exhilarating release to which he is gradually bringing me to. My mouth hangs open, twisting toward his face, willing his lips to mine, to finally breathe him in. The missing sensation of something so utterly personal, to kiss another, was keeping me on edge. He could perform all the tricks he wanted - and he was doing them well - on my cock, his tongue dancing over every surface of bare skin at my neck that he could conquer, his fingertips could toy with the silver ring that threaded through my nipple... yet it wasn't enough.

I moan and writhe against him. From the outside, we probably look like any other couple on the dance floor, grinding and swaying, moving to the soul changing music that the band was weaving around us. As my eyes close again, losing myself in every touch, every wondrous expression of his interest in me, I can feel the most pleasurable tension building inside of me. This string pulling tighter and tighter with every pass of his hand up and down my cock, every twist of his wrist in the small space pulling my dick toward my stomach gives him. I am far beyond worked up, I am far beyond caring that I am most likely going to end up with a sticky mess in my pants when the moment is over.

I just want to come. I want to come for him. This complete and utter enigma that has me pulling him tightly around me, pushing into his body, wanting him to consume me right here, right now, no matter the fuck the consequences that come after will be. I want him, I want his touch, I want this moment to last forever. I can feel myself so close to that euphoric goal. Our bodies rock against each other in time to our own beat, our own song. A ballad, a rock fucking epic because this moment between us, this tiny amount of time I will remember long after the concert is over.

A litany of words, groans and unintelligible sound leave my mouth as his hand moves faster. My balls tighten, my cock feels like it only becomes harder as he works me up and down. His hips grind his length against my ass and for a moment, a split second, I wish that we were in fact somewhere a little more private. A little more naked, so I could really feel him against me. I want to return the intense emotions he is evoking in me with his touch. He has me completely at his whim, I am his to use as he sees fit and if he wants to play my body to an orgasmic crescendo than who am I to say no? To refuse that ultimate high that I haven't felt in so long, that bliss that I haven't experienced with anyone but him and my own hand in far too many years?

My brain can't focus on the past for long. I am so carried away with what the here and now is producing that all thoughts of him are replaced by this non kissing stranger. Oh how I long for his soft lips to brush against mine. It feel like that is the only barrier between us that can possibly send me over the edge. I need it. I am so close, so very close to coming that I am fully prepared to beg for it.

"Please," I use his word against him.

I turn my head, in the dark I can only just make out his features whenever a stray beam of light from the stage shoots our way. The flashes are enough to make out his head bent over my shoulder. My lips skim the soft skin of his jaw, his face slowly turning toward mine.

"Please," I beg, knowing that he can't possibly hear the words with the background of sound we are surrounded in.

I feel the heat of his lips, an almost indiscernible amount of space between mine and his. My body shakes, I am so close, I am on the precipice and with the rhythmic movement of his chest in and out behind me, I know that he is in a similar place. He has to know, he has to realize that this one thing, this last experience that most people had before all the rest would be the thing to get us there. To pull us tumbling and soaring into the abyss of ecstasy that lay in wait.

"Baby, please," I beg one final time.

A white light shines in our direction, my eyes meet his for only a fraction of a second. A fraction was all that was needed.

Oh God...

His hand twists and pulls that last perfect time. His dick presses hard against my ass.

His lips.

His sweet, soft, warm, perfect lips meet mine as I come, shuddering, exploding, white hot streams of pure pleasure shooting not only from my body but throughout my veins. His hand never stops moving, or maybe it did... I can't be sure. I revel in the euphoric aftermath. I shudder against him, our lips barely touching as I gasp for air, only breathing him in.

Him.

I stare in the dark, willing another bolt of light to come our way so I can know for sure.

Him.

His fingers work fast between my legs, shifting me around, the sticky residue of my release already cooling against my skin.

Him.

His body is still flush against my own. His hand over my heart, gripping mine tightly against the steady beat of my heart.

Him.

The tip of his nose brushing against mine and I swear I feel his tongue run along the dry skin of my lower lip, but when I press my my lips together, whatever moisture his tongue left has all but disappeared.

Him.

The zip on my fly being done back up, one metallic click at a time. His faded checkered button up that I wore tonight, he pulls out from the last places it was tucked into my jeans, covering the wet spots that my jeans most likely have.

Him.

He brings our hands back out from under my shirt, bringing them up between us, his forehead pressing against mine as his lips touch the back of my hand. I melt, my body that had already felt what I thought was a higher form of happiness suddenly explodes again with something even more.

I turn my body so I can lean my chest against his, our hands trapped between us. I will some type of sign, something to show me that my line of thinking is correct. I can't be wrong. I know what I saw, what I felt. I could never forget.

Him.

Then, the houselights turn up.

I blink, his smile is hesitant, turning up at one side and revealing the sweet dimple that I would constantly poke my pinky into whenever his grin was deep enough. I blink again and see a mix of joy and worry and sadness flicker across the eyes that I have lost myself in since the moment we had met only a few feet away, five years ago to this day. One more blink, and his forehead is against mine again, his hand gripping tight on my own, the pink tip of his tongue darting out, wetting that juicy bottom lip that I love to suck on.

"Sorry I was late," he mumbles, his eyes searching mine as the crowd around us dissipates, the show - in more ways than one - having come to a close.

"Late?"

He nods, his thick, dark lashes laying almost completely closed against the top of his cheeks. They had always reminded me of a feather duster, the way they felt against my skin as he would lay his head on my stomach, my hand combing through his hair as he talked away his troubles, or lay in perfect, comfortable silence together.

"It doesn't matter anymore." His smile wides at my words, absolving us both of the previous hurts we'd spoken against each other. None of it matters right now. All that matters is that he came, he is here and he is here with me. Together, wanted, loved, two halves completing a whole.

"How?" I ask, shaking my head slightly, his hair tickling my forehead with the simple movement.

"Cullen69, I used my cousin's account."

I laugh then, a real proper laugh. A sound I haven't let myself recreate since the last time I'd experienced the feeling with him.

"Oh, baby, I missed you so much."

His free arm wraps around my waist, pulling my body against his, "Let's go home."

I couldn't agree more.