Page 55 of Proof By Contradiction
‘Yes.’
‘The chair.’
‘The chair is fine, Ewan.’
I half-laugh, half-moan.
He catches the sound against my mouth.
The rhythm is instinct. We don’t negotiate it. My legs come up around the backs of his thighs and hook there and pull him in, and he rocks forward, and there is no prep, no drawer, no condom, no angle to engineer. There is just his cock against mine through layers of cotton and the friction of a man grinding into me on a kitchen chair because neither of us could get to the bedroom, or the table.
My T-shirt, his T-shirt, rides up.
His hand is on the small of my back, holding me flush to him. His other hand goes to the side of my face, and his lips find my neck, and he bites the place where my pulse is. The bite is not gentle. The wood of the chair creaks under us once, and the pace doubles.
Fast.
Instinctive.
No plan to it at all.
A thirty-one-year-old mathematician who has just saidI am the adult, I am choosing this with both eyes openis now grinding himself against me in his own kitchen like he has misplaced every sensible thought he has ever had.
‘Oh.’
It falls out of me. Small. Unscripted.
My hand closes on the back of his neck. My hips tip up into his, and the next roll of him presses right into the head of my cock through the fabric, and everything goes somewhere it has never been on a piece of kitchen furniture before.
He knows.
He reads it off my body.
He kisses me harder, and the rhythm doesn’t slow. It just gets heavier, every grind hitting the same place, my own cock trapped between the seam of his joggers and the solid press of his body.
‘Come on, Ewan.’ His mouth is against my mouth. The low Lancashire right on the surface now, no precision left anywhere. ‘Right here. In my kitchen. On this chair. Like this.’
‘Fuck.’
I come into my own fucking joggers like I have forgotten every adult thing I know. A full, shaking, unthought-out orgasm that goes through me in one endless wave and doesn’t ask permission and folds me forward into his chest with both hands fisted in the back of his T-shirt and a sound out of me I will be carrying it with me for days.
He is half a second behind me. He stutters once, twice, and then presses in hard and goes still with a small, bitten-off noise against my hair, and I feel him come in his own trousers, against my body.
Nobody moves for a minute.
My face is still on his sternum. His hand is on the back of my head. The chair has held, miraculously, and the kitchen is exactly where it was, and the fridge is still ticking in the same rhythm as before, and nothing in the room has changed except that we have both come in our own trousers like lads who couldn’t wait for a door to close.
‘Well,’ I manage, into his t-shirt. ‘That was dignified.’
He huffs. The closest thing to a laugh I have heard out of him.
He pushes his face into my hair for one second. Breathe out.
Then he gathers me, that is the verb,gathers, not hauls, not lifts, not drags, into his chest, my cheek on his collarbone, his palm flat on the back of my head, his other hand at the small of my back. The word isn’t cuddling. It’sholdingas he needs me close to say what comes next.
‘Ewan.’
‘Mm.’
