couple was entitled, but he wished Liliane and Bertram had moved into any room but the one beside his.
As a couple residing in a crowded boarding house might, they kept their intimacies confined to respectable hours and concluded said proceedings without undue commotion. Jonah seldom heard much beyond the beat of the bedposts against the wall, and he was thankful for that. But what he did hear—the occasional muffled endearment, a low cry—kept him awake until well after all had gone silent next door.
Sleepy now, still he was transfixed and losing the battle against imagery that insinuated itself into his thoughts. Bertram’s hands on her skin, creating friction where perspiration threatened to diminish it, finding hidden places where even the lightest touch was maddening. His mouth, hard, pressing, demanding, on hers. His weight and warmth enclosing her, melting over her with animal strength and need, with human longing, reducing every civilized sense to primal sensation. Rocking her on a dark ocean where each moment was lived, where all she felt was his touch, all she tasted his skin, all she saw his gaze as he sought to fall and be lost in hers.
The brick had surely been left too long in the fire. Jonah pushed away the blankets and climbed out of bed, his nightshirt sticking to his skin. He crossed to the furthest corner of the room and cracked open the window to let the chill seep in. Still he burned, and still the tap of the bed against the wall made its way to him. He leaned back on the chaise and stretched out his legs, willing the cold air to make the room tolerable for sleep. He could not close his eyes, not yet, without picturing Liliane and Bertram tangled in bare, breathless embrace. As an aid to sleep it was quite inadequate. He ached, himself, in a most inappropriate fashion. He laid a hand upon his lap, and the treacherous organ stirred, making matters worse. If he did not give in, he would never sleep. It felt criminal to find himself aroused by his neighbors’ intimacies. But other fantasies that crept from the dimmest corners of his mind were worse.
In among those fantasies, two memories flitted in and out—one sweet, one sharp. The sweet was an afternoon of long ago and a lonely riverbank from which he’d seen two boys his age splash and play—and kiss. The sharp, though, dominated these days; the one that surged to mind when he needed that touch. His grip through the cotton nightshirt made him tremble, and he closed his eyes, falling back to a dark, humid hallway in a Bowery row house notorious for its low women. Why he’d been there—all he remembered was escaping from the perfumed, painted creature kissing him, to end up alone in an unfamiliar hall. The proprietor blocked his way—intentionally, Jonah knew now—watching him out of black eyes under heavy brows, smiling at him like they shared secrets no one else could guess.
The man had calmed him so well, Jonah hadn’t at first noticed how thoroughly he’d been cornered under the stairs. He could hear the low voice, teasing, reassuring, and the hands on his skin revealed more than just a perversion for other men. He’d laid out Jonah’s life in that endless five minutes, shown him the need he wouldn’t escape.
And he had invited Jonah back again, gratis.
Though he’d never gone back, he hadn’t gone forward, either. There was nowhere to go. The hand wrapped around him belonged to a swarthy, dark-eyed man whose name he’d never known. It pulled and squeezed, and all the while he whispered to Jonah that he understood, that the two of them were just the same. But at the last moment, Jonah was back in the present, alone, bringing himself to completion.
There were times when that touch was a guilty pleasure. There were times when he didn’t want it, because a pervasive loneliness waited at the end of it. Trying not to think, he fell asleep and dreamt he was in the bank. Reid arrived at the door, and
As a couple residing in a crowded boarding house might, they kept their intimacies confined to respectable hours and concluded said proceedings without undue commotion. Jonah seldom heard much beyond the beat of the bedposts against the wall, and he was thankful for that. But what he did hear—the occasional muffled endearment, a low cry—kept him awake until well after all had gone silent next door.
Sleepy now, still he was transfixed and losing the battle against imagery that insinuated itself into his thoughts. Bertram’s hands on her skin, creating friction where perspiration threatened to diminish it, finding hidden places where even the lightest touch was maddening. His mouth, hard, pressing, demanding, on hers. His weight and warmth enclosing her, melting over her with animal strength and need, with human longing, reducing every civilized sense to primal sensation. Rocking her on a dark ocean where each moment was lived, where all she felt was his touch, all she tasted his skin, all she saw his gaze as he sought to fall and be lost in hers.
The brick had surely been left too long in the fire. Jonah pushed away the blankets and climbed out of bed, his nightshirt sticking to his skin. He crossed to the furthest corner of the room and cracked open the window to let the chill seep in. Still he burned, and still the tap of the bed against the wall made its way to him. He leaned back on the chaise and stretched out his legs, willing the cold air to make the room tolerable for sleep. He could not close his eyes, not yet, without picturing Liliane and Bertram tangled in bare, breathless embrace. As an aid to sleep it was quite inadequate. He ached, himself, in a most inappropriate fashion. He laid a hand upon his lap, and the treacherous organ stirred, making matters worse. If he did not give in, he would never sleep. It felt criminal to find himself aroused by his neighbors’ intimacies. But other fantasies that crept from the dimmest corners of his mind were worse.
In among those fantasies, two memories flitted in and out—one sweet, one sharp. The sweet was an afternoon of long ago and a lonely riverbank from which he’d seen two boys his age splash and play—and kiss. The sharp, though, dominated these days; the one that surged to mind when he needed that touch. His grip through the cotton nightshirt made him tremble, and he closed his eyes, falling back to a dark, humid hallway in a Bowery row house notorious for its low women. Why he’d been there—all he remembered was escaping from the perfumed, painted creature kissing him, to end up alone in an unfamiliar hall. The proprietor blocked his way—intentionally, Jonah knew now—watching him out of black eyes under heavy brows, smiling at him like they shared secrets no one else could guess.
The man had calmed him so well, Jonah hadn’t at first noticed how thoroughly he’d been cornered under the stairs. He could hear the low voice, teasing, reassuring, and the hands on his skin revealed more than just a perversion for other men. He’d laid out Jonah’s life in that endless five minutes, shown him the need he wouldn’t escape.
And he had invited Jonah back again, gratis.
Though he’d never gone back, he hadn’t gone forward, either. There was nowhere to go. The hand wrapped around him belonged to a swarthy, dark-eyed man whose name he’d never known. It pulled and squeezed, and all the while he whispered to Jonah that he understood, that the two of them were just the same. But at the last moment, Jonah was back in the present, alone, bringing himself to completion.
There were times when that touch was a guilty pleasure. There were times when he didn’t want it, because a pervasive loneliness waited at the end of it. Trying not to think, he fell asleep and dreamt he was in the bank. Reid arrived at the door, and
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