~ 16 June ~

My head is a tree trunk, and a woodpecker is trying to drill a new hole in it. Wait, do woodpeckers even do that? Drill holes in trees? My head throbs, my throat is dry like the Atacama Desert, and every muscle in my body aches. This must be what a hangover feels like, but I didn’t have a drop of alcohol. I groan and yank the pillow over my head, trying to shut the noise out.

It takes me a while to realise the noise is coming from my door. Someone is insistently knocking against it. Probably one of my tenants. It better not be Mrs B and her goddamn leaky sink. I try to pry my eyes open. It’s twilight; the sun hasn’t even come up yet, but the sky is already alive with a kaleidoscope of colours. It looks annoyingly pretty.

“Comin’!” I finally croak and add a few curse words that are as vivid as the sky outside. I drag my carcass out of bed, feeling more like 94 than 24. This is when it registers that today is my birthday. Well, happy fucking birthday to me. I potentially broke up with my boyfriend yesterday. I spent most of the day in bed nursing my frustration at the world, then forced myself to finish my chores, only to get back to an empty apartment and a dead phone. I ignored it; I didn’t want to see any missed calls or texts from Rashid. Or see that there weren’t any missed calls or texts. So I just flung myself back on my bed and basically cried myself to sleep like the pathetic loser I am.

I’m sure I look like crap. I didn’t bother undressing last night, so my clothes are wrinkled, my hair is all over the place and my eyes are probably red and puffy. There’s another tentative knock at the door.

“Jay-zuhs Christ, I’m comin’!” I yell, my accent coming through thicker than usual, and shuffle towards the door. “What the fuck can be so urgent? It ain’t even 6 in the mo…”

I can’t finish the sentence. I just stand there, door only half opened, my mouth fully open and unable to close it. Standing in front of me is not Mrs Beauchamp. Not Doris or one of her kids. Or any of my other tenants. It’s the man who sat next to a sad and desperate birthday boy at a fancy bar in New Orleans one year ago. Is this real? Is this one of my dreams? Am I hallucinating? Am I that ridiculous that my mind conjured up this vision in front of me?

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” He smiles bashfully at me.

He doesn’t get any further because the same sad and desperate birthday boy, only one year older but not any wiser, flies at him. And boy am I glad he isn’t a fata morgana, or I would have met the hardwood floor in a very indignant way. As it is, I’m caught by a set of strong arms and a solid chest. Rashid buries his face in my neck, and his inhale suspiciously sounds like a sob.

“Happy birthday, Wendell.” He kisses my cheek. “Happy anniversary, love.”

My brain can’t even begin to comprehend what’s happening, but my brain can wait. My lips can’t, and they seek out Rashid’s mouth like it holds the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything. It doesn’t, but it sure tastes nice, like coffee mixed with something sweet and nutty, and I can’t get enough.

When I wake up again a couple of hours later, I’m almost afraid to open my eyes in case I only dreamt of Rashid being here. But there is no mistaking the warmth curled around me, the weight of his arm, his fingers tangled with mine. His breath tickles my skin, soft and warm, and his lips follow its path in small, half-sleeping kisses. I turn around in his arms because I suddenly can’t bear not to see his face. He’s here. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with a smile and gently tugs me closer. I still need to make sure he won’t evaporate and poke him between his ribs with a frown.

“Ow!” he laughs. “Is this my reward for jumping on the first plane to the States because you wouldn’t answer your damn phone?”

I shake my head. “No, just making sure you’re real. Are you real?” I tilt my head to give him a scrutinising look.

“Yes, sir, I am.” He grins. “And I’m happy to prove it to you.” He rolls us over, so I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, and in the next hour or so, his mouth and hands do a very convincing job of proving to me he is in fact real.

And the Best Boyfriend of the Decade Award goes to… Rashid Chaudhury. Unanimously voted by… me.

It’s a good thing that I have the day officially off, because it’s well into the afternoon before we make it out of bed. Our only incentive is that Josie has prepared my usual birthday dinner and is expecting me at five, and you don’t mess with pregnant and hormonal sisters. When I check my phone to tell Josie there will be one more for dinner, I’m relieved to find out there isn’t even a scratch on it. Apparently after its free flight across my room, it decided on impact it needed a break and switched itself off. But it happily turns back on and instantly erupts with missed calls and messages.

Most are birthday messages from Mari, Rafa, and Elodie, and then there’s the obligatory video from Louis and Lestat, performing a very Rockstar-Lestat take on ‘Happy Birthday’. If you thought Marilyn Monroe’s breathy rendition to ‘Mr President’ was scandalously sexy… you haven’t heard this. Daniel just sent a gif which shows the Despicable Me minions watching some fireworks excitedly and the words ‘Happy Birthday!’ above them. There’s also a text from Bas Mutters, who, efficient as he is, combines his well wishes with the confirmation that someone will take over my daily chores so I can enjoy my ‘special day’.

Underneath this flood of messages are the missed calls and texts that I didn’t want to see last night. As it turns out, Rashid phoned me back immediately after I ended our call, but it went straight to voicemail. Rashid tried calling again and again for an hour when he started to worry about me. He also thought about what I’d said and how things must look like from my perspective. He was already halfway to Heathrow before he even realised what he was doing.

If I’d only known it was that easy to get him to come over, I would have thrown a temper tantrum much sooner. I’m kidding. Mostly.

Unfortunately, Rashid can really only stay until Sunday. No teasing me about it this time. But he picked something up for me on the way here. A combined birthday/anniversary present for me, he says. I have a feeling it will be something ridiculously over the top, and I’m almost afraid to see it.

“The reason why I need to leave on Sunday is because the Talamasca are sending me to Paris on Monday. For an entire week. My travel expenses are paid for – flight, hotel, per diem, everything.”

I nod stupidly at him, not sure where he is going with this.

He presses an envelope into my hands. “Please accept this and come with me…”

I peek inside and find tickets for a return flight from New Orleans to Paris for one Wendell George Dupree in it. For me. I want to protest that it’s way too much and I can’t possibly accept this, but when I look up into his eyes, molten amber and pleading, I can only form one word: “Yes.”

Best Boyfriend of the Century. Easy.

~ 18 June ~

It’s summer, and I’m back in Europe for the second time in my life. Actually, the second time this year. Flying with Rashid by my side is so much better than flying alone. He holds my hand the entire time, and I get to abuse his shoulder as my personal pillow for a much-needed nap on the plane. Rashid navigates the airport like the pro that he is, so I just follow his lead. Does that make me look like a lost puppy? Maybe. I don’t care. If it makes travelling easier, puppy mode it is.

Rashid and I take a train into central Paris, and I’m basically glued to the windowpane while Rashid is on his phone most of the time. Typing and frowning at it. I have to remind myself that Rashid is here for work. This is business, not pleasure. I brush my fingers lightly against his thigh. I don’t want to distract him; the urge to touch him is just too strong. He doesn’t look up from his phone, but I can see the smile forming on his lips. He deftly shifts his phone to his right hand and weaves his left into mine. The outskirts of Paris fly past us; holding Rashid’s hand is enough to make everything feel still.

Paris is simply and stunningly beautiful. It’s so green with its parks and tree-lined streets. The historic buildings are so rich with history and character, and I love all the cafes and restaurants with outdoor seating where you can just soak up the atmosphere. London is super cool, and I loved it there. But Paris feels like my soul has been here before. It’s a deep, quiet connection – like coming home to a place I’ve never been. This is the mother city, the one that started it all for us, stretching back generations. This is where my roots are… or thereabouts at least. I don’t actually know if the Clements, my mom’s family, originated from Paris.

Rashid booked us into a hotel near the Place de la Nation. It’s small and cosy and family-run, and their breakfast attendant is the best. He’s an older Black guy who doesn’t speak a word of English but is so determined to help. He shows us the different items on display on the breakfast buffet, points at them and slowly tells us their French names. He repeats them until we nod. Yes, this is a ‘banane’. Got it. He’s so sweet. When I thank him and wish him a nice day in French, his eyes grow as large as saucers and his whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. I think I made his day. Thank you, Mama, for teaching me and Josie some basic French!

Our room is small, and the bathroom is so tiny, it’s almost difficult to turn around if it’s just one of us in there (no chance for a naughty shower together), but we love it here. There’s no AC, but our room overlooks a small inner courtyard, and we just sleep with the window open. We’re in the middle of Paris, but the yard is peaceful and quiet. Usually. Because Rashid is surprisingly, enthusiastically not quiet when properly encouraged. Not that I’m exactly a model of restraint, either. I’m pretty sure the entire courtyard’s getting a very intimate soundtrack to our stay. I like to think of it as a public service. You’re welcome, Paris.

Rashid works a lot; he really wasn’t joking about that, but he always tries to make time for me. The weather is gorgeous; it’s warm and sunny but without the suffocating humidity of New Orleans. It’s much too lovely to be indoors, so I take my laptop and headphones with me to a park or a cafe and work on my transcriptions for Daniel Molloy. Listening to Edwin Crane’s interviews with Jack Delaney and his time being stationed in Normandy in the summer of 1944 while sitting in a cosy Parisian cafe exactly ninety years later feels incredible. I’m so grateful Daniel trusted me with this job; it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever done.

I discover that ‘SP’, the signature on the drawing, stands for Simon Penrose, a young British officer stationed in the same village as Jack near Bayeux. There are a lot of his drawings in my magic box, and a surprisingly large number of them are of Jack. Jack lying underneath a truck. Jack bent over the hood of a car. Jack with some other soldiers around a campfire. Jack looking over a meadow pensively. Jack sleeping in a barn. I’m starting to have suspicions about the true nature of their ‘friendship’, but so far I don’t have any evidence. I don’t blame them. This was a time when love between men was still illegal, and the most atrocious acts were performed on men that were found out. I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like. To be in love with someone but never be able to show it? I’m so grateful Rashid and I live in a different world, even though things are still not ideal. I devour each tiny bit of information I can find about Jack and Simon, rooting for their HEA. The time and circumstances, however, leave little room for hope.

~ 23 June ~

After Rashid basically worked his ass off the entire week, he declares he gathered all the intel he could on Friday morning and dedicates the rest of the weekend to us. My flight back to the States is on Sunday evening, and that’s when Rashid will take the Eurostar to London. Since this will probably be the last time that we’ll see each other for months, we decide to make the most of it. We stroll along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées towards Place de la Concorde, where Marie Antoinette lost her head, and end up at the Jardin des Tuileries. We find a quiet corner and plonk down on the grass, simply enjoying a lazy morning and the heat of summer in Paris.

I rest my head against Rashid’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath me. I could listen to his quiet heartbeat forever. Above us, the leaves filter the June sun, throwing flickers of light and shadow across my skin. Through the gaps in the branches, I catch glimpses of blue sky, so bright it almost hurts to look directly at it, and lazy white clouds drift by. Rashid’s fingers comb through my hair slowly and soothingly, and I blink up against the warmth, feeling utterly safe here in this shaded pocket of the world.

In the afternoon, we find a spot in one of the many boulangeries, and Rashid chortles at my tiny squeal of delight when I discover a small tray of vegan croissants and a few mini fruit breads, packed with raisins and dried apricots. Afterwards we take a long walk along the Seine, take pictures of the Eiffel Tower at every possible angle and make out behind one of the many trees lining the street before we decide we’ve worked up enough of an appetite to justify dinner. Our last sightseeing stop, though, is the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene, which strangely looks more like a Roman temple than a Catholic church. I still wanted to see it, just for its French name: L’église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine.

My Mama did her best to raise Josie and me as good Catholics, but it never really stuck. Churches are still magnificent, and I love the peaceful calm inside. My boyfriend – Muslim, but only in theory – follows along, hoping we won’t be hit by lightning the second we step inside. We’re not, and I find a quiet corner with votive candles. Making a spontaneous decision, I light one in memory of my Mama, Madeleine Clement Dupree, and for a moment, I let myself imagine her here with me, watching over me.

We discover a tiny North Indian restaurant not far from the church called ‘L’Esprit de Nani’, and I don’t even have to ask Rashid. I know that’s where we’re having dinner. The moment we enter, we’re immersed in a cloud of incense and spice. I glance at Rashid beside me. He’s positively glowing, and I can only imagine what memories these aromas bring back to him. Not sure the food can measure up to his nanu‘s cooking (nothing can!), but I think it is glorious! And Rashid’s vegan boyfriend (moi) is thrilled to find many plant-based, dairy-free options on the menu.

I’m a little puzzled about the name of the restaurant, and Rashid laughs: “So, my grandparents, Mom’s parents, Ali and Zahra, came from Uttar Pradesh in North India. They spoke Urdu, and in that language, they’re my nana and my nani. Hence the name of the restaurant, ‘Grandma’s Spirit’.” He points at the sign above the entrance. “My dad was adamant, though, we only speak English at home. It was bad enough I didn’t ‘look’ right; he wanted me to sound ‘right’ at least. My grandmother still taught me a few phrases in Urdu, and to annoy my dad, she insisted I call her nanu, the Bengali word for grandmother. My dad was from Bangladesh.” I must have still looked confused because Rashid adds with a wave of his hand, “Just the kind of little rebellious act my nanu loved. It’s not that important.”

I carefully chew on a piece of naan. It’s still not very often that Rashid talks about his family. I realise it’s maybe not because he doesn’t trust me with the information but because of his strained relationship with his parents. After a moment’s contemplation, I reach across the table for Rashid’s hand.

“I think you look very right to me.”

He looks at me with an almost boyish grin. “Thank you. You look very right to me, too.” He winks before turning sombre. “I don’t blame my dad. He had high ambitions of becoming an engineer – in his parents’ eyes being an engineer was the highest achievement possible – but then got stuck as a science teacher at a local school in rural Yorkshire. Huge disappointment for his family back in Dhaka, who sacrificed a lot so he could study in the UK.”

I frown, not quite understanding the connection. I know Rashid’s dad stayed in the UK because of the unplanned pregnancy that sits across from me right now.

“My dad blamed a lot of his missed opportunities on the lack of equality for a man of his skin colour,” Rashid explains. “Whether that was true or not, it’s how he saw it.” He rubs a thumb across the back of my hand, still holding his. “He just wanted me to have every chance in life. And really, that’s not a bad thing.”

I can’t stop myself and lean over the table to kiss Rashid’s cheek. “I’m sure he’d be proud of you.”

Rashid gives me a little shrug. “Maybe. Except for the gay thing. I doubt he would have appreciated that.” His gaze wanders across the interior of the restaurant, but I doubt he’s really seeing any of the decorations. “He wouldn’t have disowned me or kicked me out of the house, I don’t think. Just silently let me know how I’d failed him.” He laughs, but it is without humour. “My mom probably would have insisted that I just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my palm, his eyes glinting at me. “I guess I still haven’t. But I think I’ve met the right boy.”

It is fully dark when we make our way back to our hotel. This day has given me a lot to think about. I have no idea what my mom would have thought about having a gay son. I was only six when she died. I didn’t even know what the word ‘gay’ meant back then, let alone that’s what I identify as. Would she have still loved me? I guess I’ll never know. It never made a difference to Josie.

I’m sad our time in Paris has almost come to an end. I’m so grateful that Rashid took me on this adventure with him, even though I’m still hesitant about allowing him to pay for so much. Without him, I would have never made it to London or Paris. I’m starting to understand that Rashid doesn’t care much about money. It’s nice to have, buys nice things, but he’s always happy to share it with others who need it. Like when he casually donated a hundred dollars to a shelter for homeless youth because his boyfriend happened to be one, once upon a time. Rashid doesn’t come from money. His dad was a teacher; his mom ran the family restaurant. Rashid worked hard to be where he is today, and he never brags about what he has. So, am I just being a selfish brat for refusing to accept his money? As long as it’s within reason, it shouldn’t be an issue? He respects me and never makes me feel like I’m worth less because I make less money or went to a charter high school.

And my fear that this turns into a transaction of sex for money? In that case, I should have stopped sleeping with the man months ago. So what exactly is my problem? I guess I want him to keep respecting me. I want to prove I’m worth it. Today he said he thinks he met the ‘right boy’. I want this to be me with every fibre of my being.

Rashid picks up on my mood, and I can feel him sneaking me concerned little side glances. He doesn’t say anything until we get back to our hotel, where I immediately steal away into our bathroom. When I re-emerge, Rashid stands at the window with his back to me. He already undressed for bed and is only wearing his boxer briefs. The dark blue ones with little red hearts on them that were part of my birthday present for him. They were a silly idea, but he seems to like them. And I love peeling them off of him.

The other part of his present was a set of keys. They’re for my building and my apartment. I put them on a simple keychain made of grey felt with the numbers 504 stitched on them. Rashid looked at the keychain for a very long time, tracing the digits with his thumb. Then he lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, right above the tattoo Josie and I got when I turned eighteen: V 0 IV, the same numbers, only in Roman letters. It’s the area code for New Orleans, where my home is and my family.

The light from the courtyard spills across Rashid’s back and catches on the curve of his shoulder blades, so finely sculpted they should belong to a statue at the Louvre. He shifts his posture, and my eyes follow the dip of his spine, his waist narrowing ever so slightly before the fabric of his briefs takes over, snug against hips that make me lose coherent thought. Not to mention his legs, long runner’s legs, solid, graceful and sinfully delightful. The sight almost makes me believe in a deity above because someone must have smiled when they created him. He’s impossibly beautiful. And somehow, against all odds, he’s mine.

I must have made a noise, because Rashid turns around and catches my quiet adoration. He smiles and holds out his hand, inviting me into his arms. I mould myself against his frame, and he kisses my forehead while his hand wanders up and down my back.

“I love it here.” His voice is calm and quiet. “What do you think about coming back next year?”

“Next year, huh?” I smirk at him, loving the fact that he plans so far into the future. Our future.

He turns around to face me and wraps both arms around my waist.

“I might have already asked reception to reserve the room for us for a week next summer.” He smiles a little sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I know I should have asked you first, but we can cancel anytime.”

“I think it’s a great idea.” I reply and kiss him, hoping he’ll feel all the love I have for him in that kiss. I want to be the ‘right boy’ for him because I know he is for me. And I don’t want to hold back with him anymore. I want to be all in. This is the right moment. I am sure.

His tongue slides across my lips, and I open to let him in. My arms around his neck draw me closer to him, deepening our kiss. I can feel his hands glide lower down my back and press me gently against his body. I know he would never ask anything of me that I’m not willing to give. But I am willing. I want this. It’s stupid to deny him – and myself – this moment, just out of an idiotic fear that’s manifested in my brain.

I slip my hand into his and drag him backward to the bed, my smile teasing him. When the edge of the mattress nudges the back of my knees, I tug him in for another kiss, deep and slow. I can feel Rashid chuckle against my lips. He takes advantage of my precarious balance being wedged between his form and our bed and dips a finger against my chest. Since our very first kiss, he has known how to sweep me off my feet. I laugh and let myself drop onto the mattress, dragging him down with me.

In a swift and well-practiced motion, he frees us from our underwear. He just loves to get me naked, and I love the feeling of his bare skin on mine, the sparks that erupt on my body following the path of his touch. I sigh in content as his teeth scrape lightly against my jawline and he places tiny nibbling kisses down my neck. This feels so good, and he’s clearly set on a downward path. For a moment my resolve falters. I could just let him go on, and it would be great.

Jay-zuhs, Dupree, stop making such a fuss! It’s not such a big deal. Stop acting like a jittery virgin before her very first time! That ship sailed a long time ago – a really long time ago.

Before the broken part of my brain comes up with any reasons why I shouldn’t do this, I manage to mutter one word.

“Rashid?”

He hums in response and brings his face back up and level with mine.

“You okay?” He rubs a thumb down my cheek and searches my eyes. I’m sure he can see the flicker of nerves in my eyes and smile at him.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. He still looks doubtful, and before he can question me – and before I can question myself – any further, I add. “I thought, maybe tonight we could do something a little differently.”

I can see his brows furrow, and I wiggle myself free from under him a little so I can reach underneath the pillow to retrieve the items that I hid there earlier. A condom and a small bottle of lube that I place on my stomach. I flinch as they feel cool on my skin. I watch his face intently, his brows knitting together even further before realisation slowly dawns.

“You mean…? Are you sure? We don’t have…”

“I know we don’t have to,” I interrupt him. “I want to. I’m sure about that.” I stroke a finger along his chin. “And I trust you. Completely.”

He watches me closely, trying to determine how serious I am about this. I am very serious, but I give him time to reach that conclusion for himself.

Finally he says “okay”, his voice a little husky. He still sounds cautious, but I’m sure it’s not because he has reservations. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“You… inside me?” I ask tentatively.

“I wouldn’t mind either way…”

I know he doesn’t. We had this conversation a long time ago – too long – and he told me that for him it’s more about the right partner and mutual trust. I know I enjoyed both ways with Remy, but I’m nervous as it is. The last thing I want is to hurt Rashid. I know he won’t hurt me.

“And waste the meticulous prep work I’ve been doing? No way, Chaudhury.” I grin. It’s not even the first time I prepped. Call it an occupational habit. Just all other times, I lost my nerve to go through with it.

“You already prepped?” Rashid laughs. “You kinky little minx.” He kisses me, like every kinky little minx wants to be kissed: deeply and thoroughly and never-endingly. Too soon he leans back, his eyes on me.

“Can I make a request?” He asks in a low voice.

I’m surprised. He’s never asked for anything before. “Of course, you can.”

“I want to see your face.”

“Okay. I think we can work with that.” I smile at him. I’m actually happy about his request. It’s different from what my clients usually wanted. They weren’t interested in seeing the face of the guy they were fucking. And I was glad for it because it made imagining myself somewhere else, being with someone else, easier. But I don’t want to think about them now. All I want is to lose myself in the gorgeous dark brown eyes of the man I love and see the same feelings mirrored in his.

His fingers stroke down my temples and cheeks. His eyes keep lingering on me as if he can’t quite believe I offered what I did. Or making sure I don’t have any doubts or second thoughts. I don’t.

“Are you nervous?” he asks me.

“Maybe a little?” I lie. I am nervous. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am. It’s because of me that we waited so long to take this next step, and I want this to be good for Rashid. For both of us, because I know he won’t enjoy it unless I do.

He places a kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I’m nervous,” he admits. “We’ll do this together. You and me. We’ve got this.” He gives me an encouraging smile and kisses me again. I shake off any unwanted thoughts, focusing instead on the press of his lips against mine, the glide of his hands over my skin – skimming that sensitive spot beneath my arm that makes me writhe and laugh against him.

“You’re evil, Chaudhury, I hope you know that,” I manage to wheeze between giggling fits.

He hums in response. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

He’s not even doing anything, and I’m already a mess. In a good way. Which, judging by Rashid’s wicked grin, was part of his evil plan. He starts kissing me again. From my mouth, along my jawline and down my neck, burying his nose in the gentle hollow at the base of my throat. He takes his time kissing every inch of exposed skin, tracing his tongue down my chest to my navel, where he blows a very unsexy raspberry against it, making me laugh again.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, gently running my fingers through his hair, so soft and smooth to my touch. Without missing a beat, he continues to pepper my stomach with small kisses. He grins up at me from underneath his dark lashes, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he dives lower. Giggles start bubbling up inside me again when he starts paying attention to my ankles. He knows better than to kiss my toes or go anywhere near my feet. It’s where I’m extremely ticklish, and I kicked him in the face once out of reflex. Lesson learnt.

Rashid works his way up my calves, alternating between my legs, quick kisses and long strokes of his tongue until he’s reached my inner thighs. He sits up between my legs, watching my chest rise and fall at an already embarrassingly quick rate. He tilts his head, as if he’s unsure how to proceed. As if my cock isn’t begging for his attention right in front of him. Instead, he cups my ass, running his hands down the underside of my legs until they reach the back of my knees.

His eyes lock with mine, making sure I’m still with him, still wanting to do this. I do.

“Up.” He softly tells me. Not a command. Not a request. More a suggestion. I let my hands follow the path his have taken just a moment before, and our fingers briefly touch when I reach the crook of my knees. After I lift my legs, spreading them wide to give him better access, I wiggle my butt in position. My eyes never leave Rashid’s, my earlier nervous jitters gone and replaced by a feeling of utter trust.

We both smile at the same time, and he grabs one of the pillows on the bed to shove under my ass. He admires me for a heartbeat, like I’m a particularly fascinating piece of modern art. Then he continues his torturous path down from my knees along my inner thigh with kisses, nibbling bites and licks, blowing air against my heated skin, resulting in goosebumps erupting all over me. My panting turns into a low, guttural groan when he finally shows me some mercy and takes my cock into his mouth, his beautiful, talented mouth.

My legs find a new resting place on Rashid’s shoulders, giving me a little more leverage, but his hands hold tight to my hips, pressing them down onto the mattress. My fingers curl into his hair, not pulling, not pushing, just running through it, loving the soft texture underneath my palms and feeling the movement of his head.

“Rashid?” I breathe.

He hums in response, and the vibration sends a jolt up my spine. Or down. I’m not quite sure anymore.

“Don’t make me come… not yet,” I plead.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Liar.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Rashid asks me, still hesitating. Gawd, what have I done to this man that he doubts this so much?

“Very sure,” I confirm, giving him a serious face. I don’t want to tell him; I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this before. None of us needs this reminder right now.

“I’m fine, I want this, I’m good, I want you. I’m fine. I’m really fine,” I coax him down to me, my mouth finding his, the words spilling out between kisses. “Peaches, remember? If anything goes south, it’s peaches.” I cringe at my choice of words when I remind him of the safe word we came up with during one of our earlier long conversations. Rashid thought it could help me feel more comfortable during sex. I squirmed at first, insisting I didn’t need a dumb safeword unless we’re doing kinky BDSM shit (no offence if you’re into kinky BDSM shit; no kink shaming here!). We finally agreed on ‘peaches’ – just in case – because we both couldn’t think of a sexy situation where the word ‘peaches’ would come up otherwise. Unless one of us developed a sudden and urgent craving for a certain fruit. During sex. Unlikely. So far we’ve never needed it, mostly because Rashid’s spidey senses detect my discomfort before I’m even willing to voice it.

I can see some wetness swimming in Rashid’s eyes, but he blinks it away quickly and nods. Could I love this man any more if I tried?

“Promise…?”

“Yes, I do. I promise,” I assure him. I know our safe word is for his sake as much as it is for mine. If he trusts me that I’ll use it when needed, it’s easier for him to relax and let go. And that’s what I want for him.

“Okay,” Rashid whispers against my lips before kissing me again, exploring my mouth with his tongue as if it’s the final frontier. Being young and bendy comes in handy in situations like this one when your enthusiastic boyfriend forgets that your legs are still propped up on his shoulders and he’s basically folding you in half. I’m torn between another giggling fit, moaning into Rashid’s mouth or arching up against him in search of some friction. Instead, I blindly grope for the lube and condom that I know must be somewhere beside me, but my searching hands come back empty.

“I’ve got it,” Rashid murmurs, and I can feel him against my butt, fumbling with the supplies. I’m still admiring his dexterity when my ass gets smacked and Rashid drops on his back beside me.

“Come here, you.” Rashid grins at me and guides me on top of him.

“Like this?” I ask, surprised, and Rashid nods firmly. I can’t say I hate the change of view, although I know exactly why he’s doing this. Being on top gives me the power to stop if ‘things go south’. It also frees my hands and places this breathtaking marvel of a man at my full disposal. And I can’t miss this chance to explore the quiet slopes of muscle beneath my hands, tracing the clean lines and soft valleys of his chest with my fingers, my mouth and my tongue until Rashid is the one writhing underneath me, silently begging for more.

My lips find his again, Rashid breathing my name into my mouth as I finally sit upright, reaching down between us to guide him inside me, making both of us gasp.

There is something to be said about muscle memory. My body remembers. It knows what it needs to do. Relax. Allow the intrusion. Breathe through the discomfort. Rashid’s hands are on my legs and hips, steadying me. I know he wants to move, bury himself inside of me, gather me in for another kiss, and hold me close to him, but he holds still, letting me set the pace.

“Take your time. There’s no rush.”

“If you say so,” I gasp out between pants, and I can feel the vibrations of his chuckle deep in my core. “Oh, Jay-zuhs Christ…” I close my eyes.

“Are you okay? Am I hurting…”

“No… no… Gawd, no… I forgot how good this felt.” Rashid huffs a quiet laugh, and it sends another shiver through me.

“I make you feel good?” I can hear the smugness in his voice, and there is only one response to that. As I lower myself down all the way, Rashid is the one taking the Lord’s name in vain.

I give us a moment to adjust to the sensation. I can feel Rashid’s hands on my body, my hips, my ass, my lower back, and my stomach, roaming over every inch of skin he can reach and leaving a trail of lightning. I slowly open my eyes, and I’m instantly drawn into the depth of his gaze. It’s full of awe and wonder, as if he can’t quite believe what is happening any more than I can.

“Rashid…” I reach out to touch his face while I slowly start to move, and his lips open in a silent moan. He lifts one of his hands to catch mine and presses my palm to his lips, his gasps ghosting against my skin. I graze my thumb over his lips, and he swallows it into the warmth of his mouth. It’s all the encouragement I needed to pick up the pace.

I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Never return to New Orleans; never let Rashid escape back to London. Just the two of us, together, forever. Our bodies joined. I lean forward, not breaking our rhythm for a single beat, and replace my thumb with my tongue. I can feel his arms circling my back, anchoring me to him, as he pulls himself up, his mouth never leaving mine, kissing me warmly and deeply.

I can hear him whisper something into my mouth, words that I don’t understand, but they connect with something deep inside me. “Tum bohot khoobsurat ho,” he murmurs. “Mujhe tum bohot azeez ho.” When he starts moving again, it is in slow, shallow thrusts. Sweet, tender pushes. He’s making love to me.

In the seven months we’ve been intimate, we’ve probably covered the entire scale of lovemaking, and it’s not all been boring vanilla. Far from it. But tonight is different. Tonight is more intimate than any other time before. And he’s making love to me. I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent, which is significantly muskier than usual and so intoxicating it makes my head swim. “Main tumhaare baghair kuch bhi nahi hoon. Tum se mohabbat hai.”

My gaze drifts down his body, and the most hypnotic sight steals my attention: the subtle movement under his smooth brown skin, a gentle ripple across his stomach that leaves me breathless. I can’t look away. It’s mesmerising.

“Wendell?” Rashid’s voice brings me out of my trance, and when I look at him, slightly dazed, he laughs softly.

“You’re too distracted, love.” He nibbles my jawline, his stubble rasping against my skin. “Put your arms around my neck. Hold on tight.”

I do as he says, and before I can ask why, I can see a wicked grin spread across Rashid’s face, and he expertly flips us over. I land with a rather indignified ‘oof’ on my back.

Rashid brushes some strands of my hair out of my face with a smile.

“You okay? Did I hurt you?”

Still a little out of breath, I can only shake my head.

Rashid kisses me, and while I will never get enough of his kisses, his body remains still. Too still, and I moan into his kiss, desperate for him to move more than just his tongue.

“You ready to go on?” he murmurs against my skin with a tentative roll of his hips.

“Don’t…” I groan. “Stop…” The second part comes out as almost a whimper. I close my eyes and throw my head back into the pillow. Everything but my head is completely trapped under him, and I can’t help but writhe with need. He freezes, and I can feel his hand cupping my cheek.

“You want me to stop?” I can feel him pull away immediately.

My eyes fly open, and I glare at him. My fingers dig into his lower back, forcing him deeper inside me.

“Don’t. Fucking. Stop.” I growl at him.

He still looks confused, so I do my best to squirm underneath him to get my message across.

“No peaches?” He asks to confirm.

“No fucking peaches!”

His lips curl into a smile, and he bends down to kiss me again, this time mirroring his movement with a thrust of his hips. Slow, strong, deliberate strokes, steadily picking up the pace, each of them hitting that sweet spot inside me. The one down in my nether regions, sending jolt after jolt of pleasure through me. And the one in my chest, currently working overtime pumping that precious elixir of life through my veins.

---

Translation for the Urdu phrases:

• “Tum bohot khoobsurat ho. Mujhe tum bohot azeez ho.” – “You’re so beautiful. You mean so much to me.”
• Main tumhaare baghair kuch bhi nahi hoon. Tum se mohabbat hai.” – “I’m nothing without you. I love you.”