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MARCUS

I wake up at six forty-eight on a Sunday morning in September, on my stomach, in the soft grey light of the bedroom of the small careful three-bedroom craftsman, with my husband asleep against my back.

I want to flag this in my own head before I do anything else.

I am, on a Sunday morning at six forty-eight AM, in the small careful three-bedroom craftsman, with my husband against my back, awake.

The man at my back is asleep. His face is pressed into the meat of my right shoulder blade. His left arm is across my lower back, palm flat at the small of it, the way he sleeps now. His right knee is hooked over mine. His breath is the slow even count he has, in seven months of waking up in this bed with me, taught my own body to count along with at four-six.

I do not, in any way, move.

I do not move because the man at my back has, in seven months of marriage and three months in this house, in fact, taught me how to wake up first and not move, and the not-moving on a Sunday morning when there is, in fact, no clock, is — Christ — the not-moving is the small clean fact of I have, finally, in my life, a Sunday morning to not move on.

I do not move.

I lie on my stomach with my right cheek pressed to the pillow and my left hand flat under the pillow and my husband at my back, and I — Christ — I let myself feel him.

I let myself feel his breath at the base of my neck. I let myself feel his palm at the small of my back. I let myself feel his right knee hooked over mine. I let myself feel the small clean steady thrum of his pulse where his wrist is laid across my hip, and I — Christ — I let myself feel my own body waking up under his.

My body is — Christ — my body is waking up.

I want to flag that. I want to flag that, in seven months, in fact, my body has, in this bed, on Sunday mornings, learned to wake up the way it is currently waking up, and the way my body is currently waking up is the small slow careful warmth at the base of my belly that is, in fact, me, on a Sunday morning, in our bed, hard for him.

I am hard for him.

I am hard for him at six forty-nine AM on a Sunday morning in September, in our bed, in our house, on the inside of seven months of marriage and three months of mornings like this one, and the hardness is the small slow careful unhurried fact of my own body — finally, finally, finally — knowing exactly what it wants, and knowing exactly who it wants, and knowing exactly that the man it wants is, in fact, currently, at its back.

I close my eyes. I do not move.

The man at my back, in his sleep, makes the small soft hh sound at the back of his throat that he makes maybe twice a night, and his palm at the small of my back spreads, slow, in his sleep, and his fingers, slow, in his sleep, slide a half-inch lower, and they — Christ — they come to rest at the small soft place at the top of my ass.

He is asleep. He does not, in any way, know he has done it.

His hand, in fact, in seven months of nights, in fact, has done this maybe forty times in his sleep, and I have, on every one of those forty mornings, in fact, let him.

I let him this morning.

I let him this morning, and I — Christ — I, on the inside of my chest, let myself want it.

I let myself want it, on this morning, in this bed, at six forty-nine on a Sunday morning in September, the way I have, in seven months, in fact, become the kind of man who, on the inside of his own bed, on Sunday mornings, lets himself want what he wants.

I want him.

I want him on me. I want him on me, slow, the way he does it on Sundays. I want him on me, slow, for the next three hours. I want — Christ — I want, on this Sunday morning at six forty-nine AM, the small slow careful unhurried fact of my husband, awake, on me, in me, with me, for as long as the morning lasts.

I shift, very slightly, under his palm.

His fingers — half a degree — flex. His breath at the base of my neck — half a count — changes. His knee at the back of mine — half an inch — tightens.

He, against my back, wakes up.

He wakes up slow, the way he wakes up, with no startle and no shift and no fast breath, just the slow careful unhurried unfolding of him into being awake against me, and the small specific way I know he has woken up is the small specific way his palm at the top of my ass — Christ — deliberately spreads.

The hand was, when he was asleep, an accident.

The hand, when he is awake, is — Christ — a question.

He breathes against the base of my neck, soft, awake, and he says, into my skin, hoarse with sleep, the small careful Park voice that is, in seven months, in fact, only ever mine:

“Big guy.”

“Park.”

“Mm.”

“Julian.”

“Julian.”

I — Christ — I, on my stomach, in the bed, in the small grey light of the morning, push back against his palm.

He laughs.

He laughs in the small dry private way I have, in seven months, in fact, become a man who knows, and his palm at the top of my ass slides, slow, careful, deliberate, down, and his palm spreads, flat, between the cheeks of my ass, and his middle finger settles, slow, careful, deliberate, exactly where he has, in seven months, taught my body to want it, and I — Christ — I, on the bed, on my stomach, with my face in the pillow, make a sound.

He says, into my neck, soft: “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Marcus.”

“Yeah, Park.”

“Tell me what you want.”

I — Christ.

I want to flag this. I want to flag this in my own head, on a Sunday morning at six fifty AM, before I say it out loud, because the saying-it-out-loud is the thing he, in seven months of marriage, has in fact, taught me to do.

The saying-it-out-loud is the work.

The saying-it-out-loud is, in fact, the only thing he has, in seven months, ever asked of me at six fifty AM on a Sunday morning, and the saying-it-out-loud is, on this Sunday morning, in fact, easy.

I turn my face an inch out of the pillow. I open my mouth. I say, hoarse, in the small careful voice he has, in seven months, in fact, let me have, into the cool morning air of the small careful three-bedroom craftsman:

“I want you on me.”

“Mm.”

“I want you in me.”

“Mm.”

“I want — Park. Julian. I want you to take your time. I want — I want the whole morning. I want — I want, on this Sunday, in fact, the whole morning, and I want you to do me slow, and I want you to do it the way you do, and I want — I want — please.”

He — Christ — he, against the base of my neck, makes the smallest sound at the back of his throat I have, in seven months, in fact, ever heard him make, and his palm between my cheeks spreads, slow, and his middle finger — Christ — his middle finger circles the small specific place he has, in seven months, in fact, taught my body to want it circled, and he says, against the base of my neck, very quiet:

“Yes, Marcus.”

“Park.”

“Yes, big guy.”

“Park.”

“On your back.”

“Park—”

“On your back.”

“Yes.”

I — slow, careful — turn over.

I want to flag this. I want to flag this in my own head, on the bed, on a Sunday morning, on the inside of seven months of marriage. I, three months ago on the eleventh of June at six twenty-one PM, on the porch of this house, walked into this bedroom with my husband and locked the front door, and I, on the inside of every Sunday morning since, in fact, in this bed, on my back, on the inside of the slow careful unhurried hands of the man I love, learned to be on my back for him.

I am on my back for him.

I am on my back for him in soft grey morning light, in the bed, in the small careful three-bedroom craftsman, on a Sunday morning at six fifty-one AM in September, with the small careful sash window cracked an inch open and the small soft lemon-tree air of the kitchen down the hall and the small clean fact of no clock.

He sits up.

He sits up slow, the way he does, and he straddles my hips, and he settles, slow, on top of me, and he is — Christ — he is, in nothing but soft grey sleep boxers low at the line of his hips, in the soft grey morning light, in the small lamp glow that he, in his small careful Park way, leaves on a low setting through the night, in fact, the most beautiful thing I have ever, on a Sunday morning, woken up under.

He puts his hands flat on my chest. He runs them, slow, down the soft place at the front of my middle. He stops his hands at the line of my hips. He keeps them there. He looks at me.

His eyes are dark. His pupils are blown. His mouth is open. His hair is sleep-rough at the side. The small thin matte-silver wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand catches the soft lamp glow. He is — Christ — he is mine. He is, on this Sunday morning, in fact, mine.

He says, soft, in the smallest careful Park voice he has: “Marcus.”

“Park.”

“You woke up hard for me.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been awake.”

“Three minutes.”

“Three minutes.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t move.”

“No.”

“You waited.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I — Christ.

I close my eyes. I close my eyes because the good is, in seven months of marriage, in fact, the word, and the good is, in fact, the small clean fact at the front of every Sunday morning, and the good is, in this bed, the thing my body has — finally, after thirty-five years — learned to take in.

The good lands. The good lands at the base of my belly. The good lands at the small place under the right ear that he has, in seven months, in fact, learned to put his mouth on at exactly this moment.

He puts his mouth there.

He kisses, slow, careful, the small place under my right ear, and I — Christ — I, on the bed, under his hands, under his thighs, under his mouth, make a sound.

He laughs against my throat. He says, against my throat, very quiet: “Yes.”

He works his way down. He works his way down slow, the way he does, the way he has, in seven months, in fact, taught me to want him to. His mouth at the line of my collarbone. His mouth at the small soft place at the front of my chest. His mouth at the soft place at the front of my middle that I am, on this Sunday morning, finally, allowed to have.

He stops there. He puts his cheek, soft, against the soft place. He breathes. He says, very quiet, against my skin: “Marcus.”

“Park.”

“You are — you are very fucking beautiful.”

I — Christ. I close my eyes. I let it land. I have, in seven months of marriage, in fact, learned to let it land.

He kisses the soft place at the front of my middle. He kisses, slow, careful, deliberate, all the way down, and his hands at the line of my hips slide, slow, careful, under the waistband of the soft cotton sleep shorts I am, on this Sunday morning, in fact wearing, and he — slow, careful, the way he does — slides them down my thighs.

I lift my hips half an inch for him. He gets the shorts off. He drops them off the side of the bed. He settles between my thighs.

I am — Christ — I am, on the bed, in the soft grey morning light, in the small lamp glow, in the small careful hands of my husband, naked, on my back, hard, with my thighs apart, for him.

He looks up at me from between my thighs. His eyes — Christ — his eyes are dark and wet and on mine. He says, soft: “Yes?”

I say: “Yes.”

He puts his mouth on me.

He takes his time for what is — by my count, by my own internal clock — probably ten minutes. Ten minutes. Ten minutes of his mouth, slow, careful, deliberate, on me. Ten minutes of his tongue along the underside. Ten minutes of his hand wrapped at the base. Ten minutes of his mouth at the head, slow, careful, the way he does, the way he has, in seven months, in fact, learned to do for me. Ten minutes of his other hand flat at the soft place at the front of my middle, palm spread, fingers wide, holding me there.

I make sounds. I make the small soft hh sounds at the back of my throat I have, in seven months of marriage, in fact, learned to make. I make them at the back of my throat. I make them into the soft grey morning air of the bedroom. I make them, on the inside of seven months, in fact, for him, because he has — he has, in seven months — earned them.

He has earned them. He hums against my cock in his mouth at the small high hh sounds, and the humming is — Christ — the humming is the small clean fact of he likes that I do that for him, and the small clean fact of he likes that I do that for him is, in fact, one of the small clean facts of the rest of my life.

I make the sounds. He hums. I make more. He hums more.

At eight minutes I am, in fact, getting close. I am getting close in the small specific way I, in seven months, have learned to recognize, and in the small specific way I, in seven months, have learned to say.

I say, hoarse: “Park.”

He hums.

I say: “Park. Park, I — I am — I am close.”

He pulls off. He pulls off slow, careful, deliberate, with his mouth slick, with his lips swollen, with his eyes on my eyes, and he — Christ — he, between my thighs, at six fifty-eight AM on a Sunday morning, smiles.

He smiles in the small private way that is, in seven months, in fact, mine.

He says, very quiet: “Not yet.”

I — Christ. I make a sound.

He laughs. He says, soft: “Big guy.”

“Park.”

“Not yet.”

“Park.”

“I am going to make you wait.”

“Park, I—”

“I am going to make you wait, Marcus, and you are going to — you are going to be very good for me, and I am going to take my time with you, and we are going to take the whole morning, and you are going to — you are, in fact, going to be the man you have, in seven months, become for me on Sunday mornings. Yes?”

“Yes, Park.”

“Julian.”

“Julian.”

“Good.”

He gets up off the bed. He gets up off the bed slow, careful, the way he does, and he goes — Christ — he goes to the small wood drawer of the bedside table, and he opens it, and he gets the lube, and he gets the small soft towel he keeps folded at the front of the drawer because he is, on the inside of seven months of marriage, in fact, the kind of man who keeps a small soft towel folded at the front of the drawer, and he comes back to the bed.

He gets back on the bed. He kneels between my thighs. He puts his hand, slow, careful, deliberate, at the back of my right thigh, and he — slow, careful — pushes my thigh up.

I let him.

I have, in seven months, in fact, learned to let him.

He gets me where he wants me — knees up, thighs wide, the soft careful angle he has, in seven months, in fact, learned my body in — and he, slow, careful, deliberate, opens the lube.

He works me open with one finger first. Slow. Careful. The way he does. The way he has, in seven months of marriage, in fact, learned to do, on a Sunday morning, with all the time in the world, for me. The work is slow. The work is unhurried. The work is — Christ — the work is the small clean fact of he wants me to feel every second of this.

I feel every second of this.

He works me with one finger for what is probably four minutes. He works me with two fingers for what is probably six. He works me with three fingers for what is probably another four. He, the entire time, narrates in the small careful clinical voice that is, in seven months of marriage, in fact, the small private voice he uses on me, and the narration on this Sunday morning is — Christ — the narration is good. That’s it. Breathe through it. Yes. There. Good. Good. Marcus. Good. Look at me. Good.

I look at him. I look at him the entire time. He has, in seven months, in fact, taught me to look at him.

I look at him with my eyes wet because the wet is, on a Sunday morning, in this bed, in fact, the small clean evidence of I am, in this bed, finally, fully, his, and the wet is — Christ — the wet is, in seven months, in fact, the small clean fact of every Sunday morning.

He works me until I am, in fact, ready. He pulls his fingers out, slow, careful. He gets the lube. He slicks himself. He looks up at me. He says, soft: “Marcus.”

“Park.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Park.”

“Julian.”

“Julian. Yes, Julian.”

He puts his hand at the back of my right thigh. He pushes it up. He, slow, careful, deliberate, slides into me.

I — Christ.

I want to flag this. I want to flag this in my own head, on a Sunday morning at seven-oh-six AM in September, in our bed, in our house, on the inside of seven months of marriage. I want to flag that I, on the bed, on my back, with my right knee held up by his right hand and my left thigh held wide by his left hand and his cock — slow, careful, deliberate — sliding into me, am, on this morning, in fact, home.

I am home. I am home in a way I, on the bed in his cabin in October, did not, in fact, know I was, in fact, going to be. I am home in the way that I have, in seven months of marriage, in fact, learned to be home.

I am home with the man on top of me with his hand spread flat at the center of my chest and his cock — slow, careful, deliberate — slid all the way into me, and the man on top of me is — Christ — the man on top of me is mine.

He bottoms out. He stays there. He looks down at me.

His face — Christ — his face is the face he has, in seven months of marriage, in fact, had on me at this exact moment, on the inside of every Sunday morning since the first week of June, and the face is the face I am, in fact, going to wake up to on Sundays for the rest of my life.

The rest of my life.

He says, hoarse, very quiet, into the small soft morning air of the bedroom:

“Marcus.”

“Park.”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

“Park.”

“Mm.”

“Move.”

He smiles. He moves.

He moves slow, the way he does, the way he has, in seven months, in fact, learned to do on Sunday mornings. He moves slow with his hand spread flat at the center of my chest. He moves slow with my right knee held in the crook of his right elbow. He moves slow with his eyes on my eyes. He moves slow, slow, slow, and the slow is — Christ — the slow is the small clean fact of we have the whole morning, and the small clean fact of we have the whole morning is, on a Sunday morning at seven-oh-eight AM in September, the only fact in the world.

I make sounds. He makes sounds. He, in seven months of marriage, in fact, has, on me, on Sundays, in fact, learned to make sounds, and the sounds he makes are — Christ — the sounds he makes are the small soft hh sounds at the back of his throat that I, in seven months, in fact, live for.

He makes them. I make them back. We make them together. The small clean fact of the two of us, on this bed, in this house, on a Sunday morning, in fact, making the small soft hh sounds together, is — Christ — the small clean fact of the rest of my life.

He moves slow for what is probably eight minutes.

Then he says, hoarse, very quiet, against my mouth:

“Big guy.”

“Park.”

“I am — I am going to make you come.”

“Yes.”

“On my cock.”

“Yes, Park.”

“Without me touching you.”

“Park—”

“Yes, Marcus.”

“Yes.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

He shifts the angle. He shifts the angle the way he has, in seven months, in fact, learned to shift it, and the angle on this Sunday morning is — Christ — the angle is exactly the angle he has, on the inside of seven months of marriage, in fact, learned my body in. He, on the new angle, hits the small specific place that I, on the inside of seven months of marriage, have, in fact, learned my body has, and the place — Christ — the place lights up.

I make a sound.

He says, against my mouth: “There.”

“Park—”

“There. There, Marcus. There.”

“Park—”

“Stay with me. Look at me. Stay with me.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good, big guy. Good.”

He moves on the new angle, slow, careful, deliberate, hitting the small specific place over and over and over, and I — Christ — I, on the bed, on my back, with my right knee in the crook of his right elbow and his hand spread flat at the center of my chest and his eyes on my eyes, come.

I come without him touching me. I come on his cock. I come on his cock with my eyes on his eyes and my mouth open and the small soft hh sound at the back of my throat coming out as a long low sound I have, in seven months, in fact, learned to make, and the long low sound is — Christ — the long low sound is the sound of a man, on a Sunday morning at seven-fifteen AM in September, in his own bed, in his own house, coming for his husband.

I come for what feels like a year. I come, and the wet — the wet, the wet, the wet — the wet stripes the soft place at the front of my middle, slow, careful, in three long pulses, and he, on top of me, with his hand still at the center of my chest, watches.

He watches me come. The watching is — Christ — the watching is the small clean fact of he has, in seven months, in fact, become a man who knows what I look like when I, on his cock, come.

I come down. I come down slow, the way I do, with my mouth still open and my eyes still on his and the small slow careful aftershock at the base of my belly, and he, on top of me, his cock still hard in me, still waiting, looks down at me, and his face is the face of a man who has, on a Sunday morning at seven sixteen AM in September, in fact, just made his husband come on his cock, and the face is the face of a man who is, on the inside of his own chest, in fact, very satisfied with himself.

He smiles. He says, very quiet: “Good boy.”

I — Christ — I, on the bed, on the long careful unhurried slow downstroke of an orgasm, in fact, make a sound at that.

He laughs. He says, against my mouth: “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, Marcus?”

“Yeah.”

“Marcus.”

“Park.”

“You are — you are going to take another one.”

“Park—”

“You are going to take another one. I am going to come in you. You are going to take it. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Park.”

“Good boy.”

“Park—”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

He moves on the inside of the small slow careful aftershock at the base of my belly, and the moving is — Christ — the moving is the small clean fact of him, in fact, taking what I just gave, and what I just gave is, on a Sunday morning at seven seventeen AM in September, in fact, his.

I am his. I am, on this Sunday morning, on this bed, in this house, in this marriage, in this life, in fact, his.

He moves for what is probably another four minutes. He, at probably four minutes, says, hoarse, against my mouth: “Marcus.”

“Park.”

“I am — I am close.”

“Yes.”

“In you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Park. In me.”

“Marcus.”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

He, with his eyes on my eyes, with his hand at the center of my chest, with his cock — slow, careful, deliberate — buried in me, comes.

He comes with my name on his mouth. He comes with my name on his mouth, low, hoarse, in the small careful Park voice that is, in seven months of marriage, in fact, only ever mine, and he says my name on the long slow inhale of an orgasm — Marcus, Marcus, Marcus, Marcus, Marcus — and the saying of my name is — Christ — the saying of my name is, on a Sunday morning at seven twenty-one AM in September, in fact, the only fact in the world.

He goes. He goes on top of me. His hand at the center of my chest tightens once. His cock — slow, careful, deliberate — pulses in me, three times, four, five, and the wet of him in me is — Christ — the wet of him in me is the small clean fact of the morning is, in fact, ours.

He comes down. He comes down slow, the way he does, and he, on top of me, slow, careful, deliberate, lowers onto me. He puts his face in the soft place at the side of my neck. He puts his hand, slow, on top of mine on the bed. He breathes.

We breathe.

We breathe in the soft grey morning light of our bedroom, on a Sunday morning at seven twenty-two AM in September, on the inside of seven months of marriage, on the inside of three months in this house, with our hands flat together on the bed, with his face in my neck, with his cock — slow, slow, slow — softening in me, and the breathing is — Christ — the breathing is the small clean fact of the rest of our lives.

The rest of our lives. The rest of our lives.

After a long count he says, very quiet, into my neck: “Park-Reed.”

“Park-Reed.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

I — Christ — I, on the bed, in the soft grey morning light, in fact, laugh.

He laughs against my neck. We laugh, on this Sunday morning at seven twenty-three AM in September, in our bed, in our house, on the inside of seven months of marriage, in fact, together, and the laughing is, on this Sunday morning, the small clean fact of we made it.

We made it.

He pulls out, slow, careful, the way he does. He gets the small soft towel from where he set it next to the lube. He, slow, careful, the way he does, cleans us up. He, slow, careful, the way he does, kisses the soft place at the side of my neck once. He drops the towel off the side of the bed. He pulls the sheet up over us. He gets back into the bed against my side. He puts his head on my shoulder. He puts his hand flat on the soft place at the front of my middle. He keeps it there.

He says, soft, into my shoulder: “Big guy.”

“Park.”

“Mm.”

“Park.”

“Marcus.”

“What time is it.”

“Seven twenty-five.”

“How long have we got.”

“All morning.”

“How — how long is all morning.”

“I am — I am going to put coffee on at nine.”

“Park.”

“Mm.”

“That is — that is, in fact, an hour and thirty-five minutes.”

“Yes.”

“Park.”

“Mm.”

“What — what are we going to do for an hour and thirty-five minutes.”

He laughs against my shoulder. He says, soft: “Sleep, big guy.”

“Sleep.”

“For — for forty minutes.”

“Forty.”

“Then I am going to wake you up.”

“Park—”

“Then I am going to wake you up, Marcus, and I am going to do it again, and you are going to take it, and I am going to — I am going to put coffee on at nine, and we are going to drink coffee at the kitchen table in our sleep clothes, and we are going to read the paper, and we are going to be — Marcus — we are going to be, on this Sunday morning, finally, fully, home. Yes?”

“Yes, Park.”

“Julian.”

“Julian. Yes, Julian.”

“Marcus.”

“Mm.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Marcus.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Sleep.”

“Yes.”

He pulls me a little closer against him. He kisses my shoulder. He breathes.

The breath at my shoulder goes long. The radiator under the floor — the radiator we have, in three months, in fact, become a couple who hears and does not, in any way, fix — clicks. The lemon tree on the kitchen sill, down the hall, is the lemon tree. The small soft lamp by the bed is on across the room. The wall of plants in the corner of the bedroom — the wall of plants we have, in three months, in fact, become a couple who has — is the wall of plants.

The Sunday is the Sunday.

I close my eyes.

I sleep.

I sleep with my husband against my side and his hand flat on the soft place at the front of my middle and his face in the small soft place at my shoulder, and the morning is — Christ — the morning is, on this Sunday at seven twenty-six AM in September, in fact, ours, and the ours is, on the inside of my chest, the only fact in the world.

The Sundays are Sundays. The rest of our lives is the rest of our lives. The morning is the morning.

I sleep.

He wakes me up at eight-oh-six.

The morning starts again. It is, in fact, ours.

Thank you for reading the bonus.

If you loved Marcus and Julian’s story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon — it helps more than you know.

— Jace

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