Secret Bathroom Hair Fix

The party had already swallowed the ground floor of Elise’s apartment. Music thudded through the walls, somebody’s playlist too loud for the size of the place, and the hallway was the only stretch of floor that still felt navigable. I was twenty-six, old enough to know better than to get hard in a crowd and young enough not to care, and Julius was twenty-four in a black shirt that had started the night neat and was already losing the argument with the heat. We had arrived separately. We had not spoken more than ten words since. We did not need to.

Every time we passed each other in that narrow hall, something small and filthy happened.

The first time, I was coming back from the kitchen with a plastic cup of soda I did not even want, and he was headed the other way with his shoulder almost brushing the picture frames. His collar sat open. The skin at the side of his neck was warm and a little damp from the room. I did not think. I dipped my head as we squeezed past a guy arguing about a movie and put my mouth on that skin for half a second, just under his ear, a press of lips that could have been nothing if anyone had been looking. He made a sound so small I felt it more than heard it. His hand caught my wrist, squeezed once, and let go. We kept walking. My pulse was in my teeth.

The second time he found me. I was pinned against the wall by a conversation I was not in, smiling at Katarina while she talked about her new job and the terrible coffee machine her boss had bought. Julius slid behind me like he belonged there. His breath hit the nape of my neck. Then his mouth did, soft and deliberate, a kiss that lingered one heartbeat too long before he murmured something polite to Katarina and moved on. The spot he had kissed went cold when the air hit it. I had to shift my weight so the front of my pants would not announce what he had just done.

We kept doing it. Not because we were careful. Because the risk tasted better than the soda.

I would turn a corner and he would already be there, eyes on my throat, and I would lean in under the excuse of letting someone else through. A kiss just below his jaw. Another at the hinge of his neck where his pulse kicked against my lip. He started meeting me halfway, tipping his head a fraction so I had more skin, then returning the favor when the hallway emptied for a second and the living room roar covered us. His mouth was hotter than the room. He never used his tongue out there, not quite, but his lips parted and I felt the wet edge of them, and my cock answered every time like it had been waiting all week for exactly that.

Nobody saw. Or if they saw, they decided it was nothing, two guys being friendly in a crush of bodies. The not-knowing sat in my stomach and made everything sharper. I wanted his hand on me. I wanted the door shut. I wanted more than a stolen second of neck and the smell of his cologne going thin under sweat.

On the fourth pass he caught my belt loop with two fingers and held me still long enough to kiss the side of my throat properly, open-mouthed, a quiet scrape of teeth that made my knees consider quitting. Someone laughed in the kitchen. He pulled back. His hair had come loose from whatever he had done to it before he left his place, dark strands falling over his forehead, one curl stuck to his temple. He looked wrecked already and we had not even touched below the waist.

“Bathroom line,” he said, voice low, like that was the whole sentence.

“Later,” I said, and my voice came out rough.

He smiled with his mouth and not his eyes, the kind of smile that meant he was hard too and hiding it the same way I was, and then he was gone again into the noise. I stood there with the ghost of his mouth on my neck and the certainty that if we kept this up in the hallway much longer, one of us was going to do something we could not explain to Elise’s guests. I wanted that. I also wanted a wall between us and the rest of them. Both things at once. That was the problem, and it was also the entire point.

I found him again near the stairs, half turned toward the living room like he was deciding whether to rejoin the party or disappear. His hair was worse. A piece stuck up at the crown. Another had fallen into his eye. He looked like someone had already had their hands in it, which was not true yet, and the thought of making it true went straight to my cock. I stepped in close enough that our chests almost met and lifted my hand like I was doing him a favor in public, nothing more than a friend tidying a friend before he walked back into the light.

“Hold still,” I said.

He did. His eyes stayed on my mouth while I worked.

I pushed the fallen piece back from his forehead with two fingers, slow, feeling the heat of his skin and the slight grit of product that had given up. I smoothed the crown down, then let my fingers drag through the longer hair at the side, combing it into something that would pass if anyone glanced over. It did not need fixing. I fixed it anyway. My knuckles brushed his ear. My thumb settled at his temple and stayed there a second too long, pressing, and I felt him lean into it the way a cat leans into a hand it has already decided to keep. His breath hit my wrist. Down between us, carefully not touching, I could see the shape of him against his pants, and I knew he could see mine. The hallway light made it obvious if you knew where to look. We both knew where to look.

“You’re making it worse,” he said, quiet.

“Your hair?”

“Everything.”

I did it again, slower, gathering the strands at the back of his head and settling them, my palm cupping his skull for one full breath. His lashes dipped. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The intimacy of it was worse than the neck kisses, somehow, because it looked innocent and felt like foreplay with the lights on. My cock throbbed against my zipper. His did the same. We were standing in Elise’s hallway with twenty people within shouting distance and both of us hard enough that walking normally was about to become a negotiation.

“Upstairs,” I said. “Bathroom. Now. Before I do this in front of everyone.”

He did not argue. He glanced once toward the living room, where Katarina’s laugh cut through the music, then turned and took the stairs like he had somewhere ordinary to be. I waited a count of ten, adjusted myself as discreetly as a man that hard can manage, and followed. The upstairs hall was dimmer, carpet muffling our steps. A bedroom door stood open on an empty bed piled with coats. The bathroom was at the end, door ajar, light off. Julius was already inside when I reached it. I stepped in after him and shut the door, and the click of the lock was the best sound I had heard all night.

The bathroom was small. White tile, a narrow sink, a mirror that had fogged at the edges from someone else’s shower earlier. The party became a dull heartbeat under our feet. Julius stood with his back to the sink, chest rising, hair already escaping again where my fingers had failed to hold it. His mouth was parted. His eyes were dark and fixed on me like he had been holding this look in since the first neck kiss and was finally allowed to use it.

“Come here,” he said.

I went. There was barely room not to. Our shoes bumped. I could smell him properly now, skin and the last of his cologne and the clean bite of whatever soap Elise kept by the sink. I lifted both hands and put them in his hair again, because that was what we had come up here to pretend we were doing, and because I wanted to. I ran my fingers through from his forehead to the nape, slower than downstairs, no audience, no excuse. The strands were soft and a little damp at the roots. I fixed nothing. I just touched him, over and over, combing, tugging lightly at the back so his head tipped, exposing the throat I had been kissing all night. He let me. His hands found my hips and stayed there, thumbs hooked in my belt, not pulling yet, just owning the inches of me he could reach.

Our eyes locked in the mirror and then in real life, close enough that I could see the flecks in his. Mutual. Obvious. Unbearable. My cock ached. His pressed against my thigh when he shifted, thick and hot even through two layers of fabric, and a rough sound left me before I could stop it. I dragged my thumbs along his hairline, down to his ears, and he shivered.

“Damon,” he said, and my name in that voice made my stomach drop.

“Yeah.”

“I want your mouth.”

“Then take it,” I said, and meant it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all the permission he needed. The careful version of him, the one who had kissed me in the hallway like a secret, dropped. He grabbed the front of my shirt, kissed me once, hard, on the mouth, all tongue and teeth and the taste of wanting, then broke it and reached for both our belts at once. His fingers were sure. Mine were not. I stood there and let him work, breath loud in the little room, while he yanked my pants open and shoved them down my thighs along with my underwear in one impatient drag. Cool air hit my cock and I hissed. He did his own next, belt clinking, zipper loud, pants and briefs shoved to mid-thigh so his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, already wet at the tip. He wrapped a hand around himself once, stroked, and looked at me like he was deciding exactly how he wanted me ruined.

“On your knees,” he said. It was not a suggestion. It was an order, low and clear, and the want in it made my cock jump.

I went down. The bath mat saved my knees from the tile. His pants bunched around his legs, mine around mine, and his cock was right there in front of my face, thick enough that my mouth watered on instinct. I looked up. He had one hand braced on the sink behind him and the other coming to rest on the top of my head, fingers sliding back into the hair he had just let me fix.

“Open,” he said.

I opened. He fed himself in, slow for the first inch, then deeper when I took it without flinching. The weight of him on my tongue made my eyes want to close. I kept them up. He liked that. I could tell by the way his stomach tightened and the quiet curse that left him when I sealed my lips and sucked. Salt and skin. Heat. I hollowed my cheeks and took him farther, letting the head bump the back of my throat, breathing through my nose, spit already slicking my chin. His hand tightened in my hair, not cruel, just firm, holding me where he wanted me while his hips gave a short, testing thrust.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Just like that. Take it.”

I took it. I relaxed my throat and let him push in until my nose brushed the dark hair at his base and my eyes watered and the sound I made was wet and obscene in the small room. He held me there a second, cock buried, pulsing against my tongue, then drew back so I could breathe and drove in again. Not frantic yet. Deep. Steady. Using my mouth the way we had both been imagining since the first kiss in the hall. I moaned around him and the vibration made his thighs shake. My own cock hung hard and leaking between my legs, untouched, jerking every time he hit the back of my throat. I reached for it without thinking.

“No,” he said, and tugged my hair just enough to make the point. “Not yet. You come when I say. Right now you suck.”

The order went through me like a hand. I dropped my arm and put both hands on his thighs instead, feeling the muscle jump, and gave him my throat properly. He started to fuck my mouth in earnest then, short strokes that turned longer, the wet sound of it filling the bathroom, spit shining on his cock every time he pulled back to the head and pushed in again. I gagged once, recovered, and took him deeper on the next stroke because I wanted to, because the fullness and the slight burn and the way he groaned my name made me dizzy with how much I wanted all of it. He watched me in the mirror and in the flesh, mouth open, hair wrecked from my hands and now from his own grip. Every thrust smeared more spit down my chin. I swallowed around him when I could and let the rest drip, messy on purpose, and he swore like he was close already.

He was. I felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, in the way his fingers flexed against my scalp. He pulled out with a wet sound that left a string of spit between my lip and the head of his cock, and I chased it for a second before he stopped me with a hand under my jaw.

“Up,” he said, breathing hard. “Turn around. I want your ass.”

I got to my feet on legs that did not feel entirely mine. Pants still tangled at my thighs, cock flushed and dripping, mouth swollen. He spun me toward the sink before I had fully found my balance and bent me over it, one broad hand between my shoulder blades, the other already reaching for the small bottle of lube he must have pocketed before he came upstairs, because he was prepared and I was grateful and neither of us was interested in pretending this was an accident. The counter was cool under my forearms. The mirror showed me my own face, flushed, lips shiny, and behind me Julius shoving his pants lower so he could move, slicking his fingers, eyes locked on the curve of my ass like he had been starving for it.

“You want this,” he said. Not a question. A check. His slick fingers pressed between my cheeks, circling, patient for one breath and then not.

“Yes,” I said, and pushed back against his hand so there would be no mistaking it. “Fuck me. Doggy. Hard. I want you to.”

He made a rough sound of approval and pushed one finger in. The stretch was bright and immediate and good. I dropped my head and breathed, opening for him, and he added a second finger when I rocked back for it, working me open with steady thrusts that brushed the spot inside me and made my cock drip onto the cabinet door. He scissored, curled, fucked me on his fingers until I was panting and the prep was no longer prep, it was torture.

“Julius.”

“I know.” He pulled his fingers free, lined himself up, and pressed the head of his cock against me. “Tell me if you need me to slow down.”

“I won’t.”

He pushed in.

The first inch burned in the best way, thick and relentless, and then my body remembered how badly it wanted him and took the rest. He sank in to the hilt in one long, careful drive, hands locked on my hips, and we both made the same broken noise when he bottomed out. Full. Hot. Deep enough that I felt him in my stomach. He stayed there, buried, letting me adjust, his chest against my back for a second, mouth finding the side of my neck even now, a kiss that was almost gentle before he straightened and started to move.

The first thrusts were measured. Out until I nearly lost him, back in until his hips met my ass with a soft slap. Then measured was not enough for either of us. I braced on the sink and pushed back to meet him, and he took the invitation and fucked me properly, doggy style over the bathroom counter, pants around our thighs, the party a distant thud under the wet sound of his cock driving into me. Each stroke shoved a moan out of my throat. I did not try to quiet them. The door was locked. The music was loud. And I wanted him to hear exactly what he was doing to me.

“Harder,” I said, voice cracking. “Don’t be nice. Pound me.”

He did. His grip on my hips went bruising and his pace turned ruthless, long deep strokes that slapped skin to skin and shorter, harder ones that nailed the same spot over and over until my arms shook and my cock swung, dripping, untouched and desperate. The mirror showed the wreck of us: my mouth open, his hair falling in his eyes, his stomach flexing every time he buried himself. He reached around once and stroked me, two rough pulls that nearly ended me, then took his hand away and put it back on my hip because he was not done using me yet and I was not done being used.

“You feel so fucking good,” he gritted out. “Tight. Taking all of it. Look at you.”

I looked. I watched him fuck me in the glass and felt it at the same time, the drag and the stretch and the hot slide of him, and the combination made my knees threaten to buckle. He hauled me back onto his cock and kept going, relentless, the kind of pounding that emptied my head of everything except more. I moaned for it. I told him so, filthy and clear, yes, harder, don’t stop, fuck my ass, I want it, and he gave it to me until the sink rattled and my voice went hoarse and sweat slicked the place where his hands held me. Every thrust shoved me forward and he dragged me back. My cock leaked steadily. The pressure built low and mean, coiling, and I knew if he touched me again I would come immediately, and I also knew I wanted to wait until he was ready to finish on me, because that was the picture in my head and I wanted it as badly as he did.

He lasted longer than I expected and not nearly long enough. His rhythm broke. His breath went ragged against my shoulder. He drove in deep three more times, grinding, and then pulled out in one smooth motion that left me empty and clenching around nothing. I heard the wet sound of his fist on his cock, fast, and then he groaned, low and wrecked, and heat striped across my lower back and the top of my ass in thick pulses. He came hard, painting me, one hand braced on my hip to keep me bent while he finished, the other working himself through it until the last of it dripped warm down my skin.

“Your turn,” he said, voice shredded. “Now.”

I did not need to be told twice. I straightened just enough to get a hand on myself, still bent over the counter, his cum cooling on my back, and stroked hard and fast. It took almost nothing. The image in the mirror, the ache of having been fucked, the slick sound of my own fist, and I came with a choked moan, spilling over my fingers and against the front of the cabinet, thighs shaking, vision narrowing to the white tile and the feel of his hand still resting on me like he was not ready to let go. I worked myself through it until I was oversensitive and empty, then slumped forward on my forearms, breathing like I had run up the stairs twice.

For a few seconds neither of us moved. The party went on without us. Julius reached for a hand towel, wet it, and cleaned my back with surprising care, wiping away the mess he had made, then handed me another for my hand and the cabinet. We did not speak much. We did not need to. I fixed my underwear and yanked my pants up. He did the same, tucking himself away, belt clinking softly. In the mirror we looked like two men who had almost gotten away with something and did not regret a second of failing to.

He stepped in close one last time. I tipped my head. His mouth found the side of my neck, the same place he had been stealing all night, and this kiss was slower, lips parted, a quiet brand just under my ear. I returned it against his throat, tasting salt, feeling his pulse settle. When we pulled apart, his hair was a disaster again. I did not fix it. I liked the evidence.

“Thursday,” he said, low, already smiling that private smile. “My place. No party. I want you on your knees the second you walk in, and then I want the rest of the night. You free?”

“I’m free,” I said. My voice was still rough. The plan settled in my chest, hot and certain, already more detailed than I was going to admit out loud in Elise’s bathroom. “I’ll be there at eight. Don’t bother fixing your hair. I’m going to ruin it.”

He laughed once, quiet, and unlocked the door. We listened. The hall was empty. He slipped out first, shoulders loose, a satisfied smirk he did not bother to hide, and headed for the stairs like a man who had only stepped away to wash his hands. I counted to twenty, checked the mirror, smoothed nothing important, and followed with the same look on my face, already turning Thursday over in my head, already deciding exactly how I wanted him to take me when there was no party left to sneak away from.