We were having breakfast, Tad and I. Toast, bacon, black coffee. We were both naked. He had told me to serve him, then sit and wait. My apartment had a dining area, off the kitchen. The day was incredibly bright, eliciting spring, though in truth it was bitterly cold.
He ate and I watched him. He was insanely beautiful. The olive skin, flecks of scars scattered on one shoulder, the flop of hair, wildly muscled thighs. I could not think what to say. He had stayed overnight for the first time.
“Get on your knees,” he said.
I was immediately aroused, embarrassed by that fact, but there was no hiding it in the wide breadth of sunlight. I got on my knees.
“Come,” he said.
My kitchen table was a marble square atop saw-horse iron legs. It sat four. He was across from me. I crawled toward him
