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Cupcake Kissin’ 29 – Alex Ankarr
He has a hand on the kitchen counter he’s leaning against, to stabilize himself a little, and he feels like he needs it. The kitchen is very bright, very, but all his sense of perspective is lost. The world feels drawn in to a tiny, intimate circumference, just him and Mack, close up and looking at each other, glancing away, looking at each other. Mack puts a hand over his, and it’s very warm and tight.
‘They didn’t say anything about you being an engineer,’ Mack explains. ‘Maybe I didn’t ask the right questions.’ There’s a little pause in Caspar’s brain, as he tries to make it follow on, deduce the conclusion that he is sure is available from what Mack has just said. It takes a moment, yeah, but then it comes to him. That Mack is basically saying that he quizzed Caspar’s staff about him. Has been asking questions, purposeful questions?
But he’s probably getting it wrong. ‘I guess it didn’t occur to them,’ he says, with a swallow. ‘You know, as relevant. I mean, it wasn’t anything you needed to know.’
Hell, and Mack’s hand is still on his. Why? ‘Maybe I wanted to know,’ Mack says. He’s looking down, too, at their hands which are – not clasped. Caspar doesn’t exactly know– Mack looks up, then, and it’s through lashes that are practically obscenely unfair. ‘I suppose I could just have asked you – about all those kinds of things. What you like to do, what you’ve done, who you are. Except you haven’t seemed to want to talk to me lately.’
And at this point Caspar’s throat appears to be attempting to choke him, by means of simply closing up and refusing to allow access to air or saliva. Because that is a really unfair, blind-siding, unwarrantedly honest assessment of the situation, and the way he’s been dodging any possibility of having to talk, or interact with, or sometimes even see Mack. Not if he can help it, at any rate.
It just hasn’t occurred to him that maybe he’s been a little bit transparent about it. Not quite as sneaky and underhanded – or subtle and casual – as he would like to think. Oh hell. He never meant to be rude. Or at least, not to be detected in being rude. He hadn’t thought that Mack would be paying close enough attention to even notice…
But in any case, denial seems like the best way forward now, or indeed the only option available to him. ‘No, no,’ he begins, and maybe he’s a little bit flushed, and certainly more than a bit flustered. He doesn’t know exactly what to do with his hands – or at least, his one free hand – and his eyes are all over the place, because eye contact now is an impossibility. ‘I’ve been busy, I’ve been… I wouldn’t avoid you? Why would I be avoiding you?’ He’s aware, much too much aware, that his laugh is nervous, a semi-tone higher than normal.
And Mack’s hand moves on his own. You could call it a stroke, if you felt like calling it a stroke. Caspar does wonder if the veins are about to pop out of his forehead. It’s probably not a flattering look. ‘I though maybe you didn’t like me?’ Mack offers.
Okay, Caspar has about stopped breathing, right about now. (Also probably not the wisest tactic ever. Effective for disconcerting the enemy, taken to extremes, and yet deadly.) He pushes a hand through his hair and disorders it further. (It must look terrible, all the abuse he’s been giving it.) ‘No,’ he falters, and then, from Mack’s face, feels that that is perhaps a misleading answer. ‘I mean, I – I like you fine. I like you.’
How have they come to this, he wonders incredulously. Have they suddenly been transported back twenty years into the playground, to a world of love-notes and passed-on advice that such and such boy likes you? Why are they acting like idiots? Or at least, why is Caspar acting like an idiot?
Mack doesn’t appear to have any time to waste acting like an idiot. There’s barely a microsecond’s pause between Caspar’s avowal of, er, liking – however idiotic – and him affixing his lips to Caspar’s mouth.
Well, it seems reasonable, in a way. They were pretty much in position already. And Caspar’s brain is sparking and stuttering much too much for him to be able to work out why, just minutes previously, he had been absolutely set upon not getting into precisely this kind of a position – a very compromising position – with Mack. No matter how attractive he is. And famous. And flirty. And funny. And… shut up, he admonishes himself. Shutting up gives him more time to concentrate on the press of Mack’s lips on his, the slight opening of Mack’s mouth, of his own. On the heat, the trace of wet tongue as Mack’s mouth presses, kneads and caresses into his own, and the numb fuzzy buzz of arousal all over his skin is just deafening.
Caspar finds that his hands have strayed without his permission, that they are sliding around Mack’s waist of their own volition and without even having the courtesy to stop there and bide awhile. They’re up around Mack’s shoulder-blades, kneading and massaging as they go, with Caspar panting as Mack leaves go his lips for a moment. He’s pressing inwards at the pelvis, and that’s quite unplanned too, and Mack groans, grabs the back of his head by Caspar’s too-long hair, and dives back in for another taste of his mouth.
It’s really only the thought that with the way they’re carrying on, and the way that Caspar is giving no resistance to Mack’s vigorous techniques whatsoever, it seems as if Mack could bend Caspar over the table and have at it and Caspar would be quite amenable with that plan, that arrests Caspar’s enthusiastic co-operation. He doesn’t know exactly where the thought comes from, straying like an errant, lone cloud through the hot, fuzzed-up interior of his slowly moving mind, cloudy with sweat and arousal. But yes, it’s probably fortunate that it manages to force its way in there.
© Copyright Alex Ankarr 2014
No unauthorised reproductions allowed. All rights reserved to the author. No inspirations for characters drawn from real-life individuals, no resemblance to real individuals intended.