And he's thinking. I can tell, though, that there's nothing serious weighing down his mind right now. If there was, he'd have that little half-frown on his face and his eyes would be cloudy and pale. No, whatever he's thinking about is either pleasant or meaningless--or both. This is busywork thinking; nothing more than something to do to pass the time. I adore how he does that, lets his mind fill up the empty spaces in his day with something besides the satin-finished boredom that most people his age prefer.

Justin thinking is very hot. Watching him think turns me on almost as much as his body does. More, sometimes, when he's thinking about me, or what he wants to do to me, or what he wants me to do to him. He thinks, and I'm fucked. Even when his thinking ends up in me fucking him until he can't walk, I'm the one who's fucked. Why? Because every damned time I fall in love with him a little bit more. It's stupid that I can find more reasons to love the little twit, but I do. How he so seriously ponders the worthiness of whole-grain versus rye bread for roast beef sandwiches. Or whether to buy a rubber or silicone dildo, considering the latter's limitations on our lube selection. The boy is a natural scientist, always weighing, always judging but without passing judgment.

Maybe that's how it came to be that he is in possession of my heart. He thought about it enough and decided that he'd take better care of it than I would. And the more I think about it, the more I agree with him. The danger inherent in letting him in is far less than what I'd face if I kept it locked up like I used to. He's got good hands; slender, nimble and far stronger than they look. He cradles my heart like it's something rare and precious and not some gold-electroplated bauble he got out of a candy machine at the mall. I found my heart in a Crackerjack box and shoved it in a drawer with all the other discarded toys. He found it, dusted it off, and all of a sudden it's worth something.

Shortly thereafter, or maybe before, he gave me his--suddenly and without ceremony. He just handed it over, between the bills and the poppers. Pay for the cable and the heat, Brian. Here's my heart, you might not want to misplace it. You forgot to put the poppers in the fridge. I'd like to say that I carry his heart around with me, but I don't. It's too fucking big and it would ruin the lines of my precious Armani. Instead, I leave it lying around the loft, our home, where it has pretty much taken over. No one who visits sees it, but that's because it's everywhere. It's like looking for air--you can't see it, but it's there. Here, there, everywhere.

God, I want him.

I can't resist touching him--just a casual stroke-and-grab. I can feel his thoughts slow, floating in a lazy spiral. If I keep this up much longer, he'll be in that place where his body demands attention and his brain is just along for the ride. I like him like that; he's easy that way. Then again, so am I. We're well-matched. Complete sluts where the other is concerned. Relationships aren't supposed to be based on sex, right? Wrong. Ours is and it suits us fine...most of the time, anyway. Better than if we'd tried to make it work based on our movie and music preferences, or our personal philosophies. The very thought makes my eyes roll.

I want him somewhat coherent, at least for a few more minutes, so when the elevator stops I let him go. Besides, I like watching his reaction when he first sees the door. I doubt he realizes I know how much the fucking door turns him on--though I think it's obvious, given how often I fuck him against it. Maybe it's the texture of rusting steel scraping his back, or maybe it's what the door symbolizes in his labyrinthine mind. Whatever the reason, the door is one of his erogenous zones. Hell, the loft is one big hot spot for both of us, but the door is unusually sensitive for him. If I didn't already have plans for the night, I'd take him against it, here on the outside. Something as useful as that door can't be christened too many times, in my opinion.

And then we're inside and the door is closed and we're home; well, he's home. I've been home all night--touching home, kissing home, fucking home like he might disappear if I let go even for a second. Home.

He's letting his mind wind back up, but that's not what I want. I want him the way I always want him after a session at Babylon: naked, wet and soapy. Hot, wet, slippery blonde boy sliding down to pool at the base of my cock. So I tease, just a little; my breath skids across his skin and my lips ache to touch, to draw in the taste I know is waiting for me. But I don't; I let myself suffer for a moment. A little delay of gratification never hurt anyone.

As I turn away, I feel his eyes slapping my back and I can't help but smirk. He may hate me now, but he'll be thanking me soon enough.