The smell of sizzling garlic and thyme hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of red wine standing in glasses next to the countertop. I was slicing onions into fine rings, tears in my eyes, while Jonas next to me skinned the tomatoes. It was our ritual: every second Friday we cook together, drink too much, talk until late into the night. For five years, since college.
“You’re quieter than usual,” I said without looking up. The knife slid through the last onion, and I felt my heart beat faster. Something was different tonight.
“Am I?” he asked. His voice sounded different, somehow rougher, deeper, as if he had a frog in his throat. Or as if he had thought about what he was about to say.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and turned around. He stood only a meter away, his hands buried in the apron, looking at me—not with the usual friendly gaze, but with something new, something that made me pause. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.
“What’s wrong, Jonas?” I asked. The wine burned in my throat, even though I had only taken a sip. My pulse hammered against my temples.
He set down the knife and came slowly toward me. The air between us grew thinner, heavier, electric. “I have to tell you something,” he began. “And you can’t laugh.”
“Laugh? Why would I laugh?”
“Because it sounds stupid.” He was standing right in front of me now, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body, the heat radiating from his skin. “I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to just be your friend.”
My heart skipped a beat, then another. “What do you mean by that?” I asked, though I already knew. My knees went weak.
“I mean,” he said, placing a hand on my cheek, “that I want to kiss you. For months. Maybe longer.”
His fingers were warm, a little rough from work, and I felt my skin heat up beneath them. I stood there, motionless, as his thumb stroked my cheekbone. Then he leaned in, slowly, as if giving me time to look away. But I didn’t want to look away. I wanted him, wanted this, wanted more.
His lips met mine, soft and hesitant, like a question. I opened my mouth, let him in, and the kiss deepened. He tasted of red wine and thyme, of something forbidden, of months of longing. My hands found his neck, pulled him closer, while his tongue explored mine, searching, greedy. I felt my cock harden in my pants, a familiar throbbing that surprised me.
“I’ve missed this so much,” he murmured against my lips. “Touching you.”
“You’ve never touched me,” I said, laughing softly. But my laughter died as his hand wandered lower.
“No, but I’ve often imagined it.” His voice was hoarse with desire. “Every fucking night, when I lay alone in my bed and thought about how you would taste, how you would moan when I fuck you.”
His hands moved from my face to my shoulders, gliding over the fabric of my shirt, unbuttoning it, button by button. I let it happen, felt the cool air on my skin, his fingers on my chest. Then he bent his head and kissed my nipple, which immediately stiffened, hard and sensitive. His tongue circled it, first gently, then harder, until I threw my head back and moaned.
“Fuck, Jonas,” I gasped, while he worked the other nipple with his tongue. His hand slid lower, over my stomach, to the waistband of my pants. He opened the button, pulled down the zipper, and I felt his fingers slip into my underwear.
“You’re already hard,” he murmured, and I felt his grin against my skin. “God, I want to taste you.”
He dropped to his knees, pulled my pants and underwear down in one motion. My cock sprang free, hard and pulsing, the tip already wet with pre-cum. Jonas looked up, his eyes dark, then leaned forward and took me in his mouth.
I gasped loudly as his warm lips enclosed my tip. His tongue circled it, played with the sensitive head, then he slid deeper, taking me all the way into his mouth. I grabbed his hair, pulled him tighter against me, while his head moved back and forth, first slowly, then faster. His tongue massaged the underside of my shaft, while his hand gripped the rest and moved in rhythm with his motions.
“Yeah, just like that,” I moaned. “Fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good.”
He looked up, let me go for a moment to say, “I want you to come on my face.” His voice was rough, almost unrecognizable with desire. “I want to taste your cum, feel it on my skin.”
I shuddered. That was new, that was different, and it made me even harder. “Keep going,” I gasped. “Finish me off.”
He obeyed, taking me back into his mouth, deeper this time, until I felt the back of his throat. His hand cupped my balls, massaged them gently, while he blew me with increasing speed. I felt the tension building inside me, the wave rising higher, and then, with a loud moan, I came. My cum shot into his mouth, hot and thick, and he swallowed without hesitation, his gaze fixed on me, while he kept going until the last drop was gone.
He let me go, stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste better than I imagined,” he said, and his smile was crooked and hot.
I pulled him to me, kissed him, tasted myself on his lips. “Come to the bedroom with me,” I whispered. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He looked at me, his eyes dark with desire. “Are you sure?”
I answered by taking his hand and pulling him through the hallway. His bedroom smelled like him, like laundry detergent and a hint of sweat. I fell onto the bed, pulling him with me. He landed on top of me, his weight familiar yet foreign, and I felt his hard cock through his pants pressing against my thigh.
We kissed again, while my hands opened his pants, pushed them over his hips. He helped me, stepped out of his clothes, while I undressed. His skin was warm under my fingers, the muscles tensing as I stroked his back. His cock sprang free as I pulled down his underwear: long, thick, the tip dark red and wet. I gripped it, felt the heat radiating from it, and began to slowly stroke it.
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