амега (peterick)

neuf.

"Are we not gonna take any suppressants tonight, Petey?"

The warmth of the house embraces our bodies like a hug as I step over the threshold. I close the front door and gently pull the jacket away from Patrick's shoulders, and he shivers delicately, his arms and legs clung to my back like a tiny monkey hanging from his mother. "No," I tell him. "Not if they make you sick."

The entire lower floor of the house is really just one, gigantic room with pieces of furniture randomly placed around it; the kitchen fills up the left half of the excessive space, with oak countertops lining the pale walls, and a square island in the center, complete with a deep sink and touch sensitive stove. On the right, directly opposite, is a living room that looks as though it belongs in a student flat, moreso than a mansion. The only overly expensive item would have to be the curved, 85 inch plasma hanging from the wall, although the U-shaped couch wrapped around the glass coffee table looks rather elegant, considering I'd bought it for a bargain in a charity store (the one my parents left me had too many pillows for my liking).

The glass french doors that open up to the back yard are eight feet wide, and the only thing that separates both areas of the room, but the blinds remain closed across them. The lighting system is automatic, and the ceiling fixtures flicker to life as I make our presence known, casting a warm glow over the room.

I place my jacket over the back of the couch before approaching the kitchen island and sitting Patrick down on the edge. I press my palm against his forehead, noting the above average temperature that radiates from his slick skin. On the way here, he'd announced meekly that he feels too exhausted to have a bath tonight. He'd been near enough flat out by the time we'd completed the ten minute walk home, rendering my arms sore and stiff, but it's not worth moaning about now; if I were brave enough to wind my father's Mustang through the narrow streets of the the French Quarter, I'd be driving to Reine Loups every night.

Now, Patrick sits atop the counter, clutching the edge firmly as I kneel down at his swaying feet to retrieve the newest batch of clean clothes from the drier. I dig out one of my dark gray pyjama tops before standing straight again, my hands moving confidently to circle Patrick's chest and back. I unclip his bra, sliding it off of his shoulders, and throw it into the dirty laundry. His panties stay uncovered; he feels too restricted, otherwise.

"What if you go into rut?" he worries.

"Well." I smirk as I pull the shirt down over his head. "It's not like you don't want me to."

He rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands, shaking his head. "Too tired for knot," he mumbles sleepily.

"That's ok," I say. "I don't think I'm ready for that, either." I look down at my lap self-consciously, as if the mere mention of the word "rut" is going to make my dick pop right out of my trousers. So far the impulse has been relatively easy to avoid, at least compared to last time, when we'd both taken suppressants. Nevertheless, if anything, ruts are one more thing I have to learn to take control of, so better I experience it now than later.

I open my arms to Patrick and smile. "Ready?"

He nods and comfortably wraps himself around me again, his limbs flowing around my body like liquid magnets. Groaning softly, I pick him up, resting him on my hip, and walk to the back of the lounge, where a wide staircase leads to the upper floor of the house. It folds 90 degrees to the left after the first handful of steps, then again upon reaching the back of the adjacent wall. The only thing that keeps us from tumbling as we climb is a thin, cast-iron banister, much like the railings of the balconies within the remnants of Hotel Royal. There aren't any balconies in here, however, unlike the customary townhouses of New Orleans, the very top of the stairwell instead disappearing beneath a grand, curving archway directly above the TV, where a fraction of the ceiling overgangs it.