On Time

I'm late. I'm not so late that I can give it up, sacrifice my job, potential, good standing, but I'm late enough to put it in serious jeopardy. Late again. Four years on time and then I met him. When he's not stealing my time and body, he's stealing my thoughts and ambition, and I give them to him gladly, like flicking away a winning lottery ticket. Every minute with him is better than all that. I've got to be at work on time today, even though I can feel him back in bed, pulling me to him like a stray hair to staticky wool.

I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.

Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.

Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.

"I've got to go."

"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."

I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!

I don't have cash for a cab.

The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.

Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.

I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.

No, I'm late already!

"No."

But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."

I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.

"Call in," he says.

"I called in last week."

"You're still sick."

"I really have got to be there today."

"You've got to be here today."

"Shh."

I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.

"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.

"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.

My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.

He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.

"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."

Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.

"What!" I crack out.

"You can go."

I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.

And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.

"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.

I don't hate anything but leaving.