It is that time of the afternoon when the sun has arced its way down between the two buildings opposite my flat, and is throwing its rays directly through my bedroom window. You sprawl out across the duvet and bask in their warmth. We have been outside recently enough to know that the heat is a happy illusion; autumn is in the air, and its bite is as crisp as the windfall apples piled up in a bowl next to the bed.
I roll over to grab one. I love the relish with which you bite into them, and how little you care about the sticky juice that smears across your lips and chin with every mouthful. You eat an apple like it is the best and last thing you will ever consume.
I’m stopped by your hand on my wrist, a gesture so unexpected that I flinch when I feel your fingers brush over my skin. The lunge has pulled hair across your face like a soft, dark curtain, which falls away again as you roll and burrow up the bed, between my legs.
Rocking back into place, I stare down at you, unwilling to break the silence. Your face is hard to read, even as it tilts towards me, your cheek coming to rest on my left thigh. I think we are both surprised by how gently I rest the back of my hand against it. You are solemn, your eyes wide, and I respond by cupping your chin; it stills you, as if the pressure of my thumb and forefinger on your jawbone has placed the rest of your body in a vice.
Slowly, my other hand curls around my cock. It has been hard ever since you peeled off your vest top and I saw the sun bathe your tits in a sudden rush of golden light. Now I can feel it throb in earnest; there is nothing false or fleeting about this angry heat.
Your mouth opens unprompted, then clenches shut again, barely stifling a low moan. I jut my hips up towards you. I feel like I’m floating above the bedsheet, even as fierce lust gathers in my stomach like a lead weight.
“You don’t want an apple, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t.”