The Night My Cousin’s Husband Came Upstairs

Clara called me on a Tuesday afternoon. They’d been back from Cancún for a few days and she wanted me to come see the photos, to tell them how I’d been while they were away on their honeymoon. I love hearing travel stories, and Clara knew it was the perfect excuse for us to get together.

On the one hand, I wanted to see them. On the other, I was afraid of being in the same room with Diego again.

What had happened at the wedding three weeks earlier hadn’t left my head. Nothing concrete, nothing I could tell anyone. Just a look that lasted too long in the banquet hall corridor, a fraction of a second in which we both knew something neither of us wanted to know. That was all. But it had been enough.

***

The new building was in the south side, next to a park. An apartment block with an intercom and a glass elevator. Clara opened the door for me before I’d finished pressing the button.

—Cousin! —I heard her shout from above before I saw her lean over the railing.

I’d brought a bottle of white wine because I didn’t know whether they liked red. I climbed the stairs slowly, as if the whole building were on a slope.

Diego opened the door.

He was in dark jeans and a sleeveless gray T-shirt. His hair was a little longer than at the wedding, slightly tousled, and he had a smile that threw me off more than it should have. There was something about that smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he looked at you.

—Marcos. —He gave me a quick hug, a few pats on the back.— How are you?

—Good —I said, and I didn’t know what else to add.

Clara appeared from the kitchen wearing an apron and with wet hands.

—Cousin, I’m leaving you in good hands. My pasta’s going to stick —she gave me two kisses and disappeared again.— Diego, show him the place.

Diego looked at me with an expression that mixed amusement and something harder to name.

—We obey —he said, and gestured for me to follow him.

The apartment was spacious and bright. He showed me the living room with boxes still to be unpacked, the terrace overlooking the park, the room they were going to turn into a study. I followed his steps without really listening to what he said. I was watching his hands when he pointed at something, the movement of his back under the T-shirt, the bulge that showed in his jeans every time he turned around.

In the living room we stopped in front of the window. The two of us looked outside for a second before either of us said anything. It was one of those silences that weighs more than it should between two people who barely know each other.

—Nice view —I said at last.

—Yeah —he said, and he wasn’t looking outside.

***

Dinner was simple: pasta with homemade sauce, garlic bread, and the wine I brought. Clara talked almost the whole time—about the flight, the heat in Cancún, the hotel, the people at the beach. Diego ate slowly and every now and then looked at me from across the table without saying anything. I drank more wine than I should have.

After dinner, Clara took out the laptop and we started on the photos. First the wedding ones, which I partly already knew. Then the trip: beaches, excursions, restaurants. Clara commented on every one with that energy of hers that fills any room.

And then came the photos that should not have been mixed in with the others.

—Not this one, not this one —Clara said, trying to skip ahead, but I’d already seen it.

It was Diego lying on the bed, face down, with the sheet over half his body. His back bare, his long legs, and the curve of his hip visible where the fabric fell short, hinting at the start of his ass. He had that expression people have when they’re truly asleep, with no pose at all.

—What a beautiful photo —said Clara, looking at her husband.— Right, Marcos?

—Yes —I said, and nothing else.

Diego took his wineglass and looked away.

We kept going through the photos for a while longer. When Clara went to the bathroom, Diego and I were left alone in the living room. Both of us looking at the laptop screen, neither of us saying anything. It was one of those moments when silence speaks for both of you more clearly than any word.

—I have to go to the bathroom —I said, getting up.

I didn’t clearly remember which door it was. Diego got up too and walked me to the hallway. When I opened the right one, I felt his gaze drop for an instant toward my groin before we turned on the light. It didn’t last long. Just long enough for both of us to know the other had noticed.

In the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was a little flushed, probably from the wine. I splashed cold water on my wrists and waited for my heart to settle down. And for my cock to go down, because just from that look of his I already had it half hard, pressing against my zipper.

***

It was late when I left. Clara gave me a long hug and made me promise we’d see each other again soon, with more time. Diego shook my hand and then, almost before I noticed, he hugged me too. A second longer than necessary. Enough for me to feel his hip pressed to mine, and something hard in his jeans that was neither his belt buckle nor his keychain.

I went down alone in the elevator.

Out on the street, the night air was cool. I looked for my keys, got into the car, turned the ignition. Nothing. I tried three times. The engine wouldn’t start; it just made a dull sound and then silence.

—Fuck —I said out loud, with nobody there to hear me.

From the third-floor balcony, Diego saw me. He leaned out and asked if something was wrong. I made a gesture. A minute later, both he and Clara were down on the street, crouched by the hood, trying to help.

We tried everything we could think of. No way. The car was dead.

—Call yourself a taxi —said Clara.

—Or I’ll take you —said Diego.

Clara looked at him for a second.

—Yeah, go on, take him. I’ll tidy up a bit in the meantime.

And that was that. Before I could say anything, the two of us were in Diego’s car, alone, with the windows up and the city passing outside.

***

We didn’t talk during the ride. The radio was on low and both of us were looking ahead. Every now and then, at traffic lights, I noticed him turn his head toward me without quite saying anything. I did the same. And at one long red light, when his hand changed gear, his knuckles brushed my thigh and neither of us moved our leg away.

My apartment was ten minutes away. Under normal circumstances it would have seemed like a short time. That night, every minute grew denser.

When my street appeared, Diego parked slowly. He turned off the engine but made no move to leave.

—Thanks —I said, my hand on the door handle.

—You’re welcome.

Silence.

—Aren’t you going to invite me up for one last drink? —he asked.

He didn’t say it looking straight ahead. He said it looking at me, directly, with that same calm he’d had in the living room with the photos, in the hallway, in the goodbye hug.

I knew what it meant. We both did.

I thought about Clara tidying up the apartment at that moment, in her kitchen apron, about the framed wedding photo they had in the living room. I thought about many things in very little time.

—Come upstairs —I said.

***

We didn’t make it to the living room.

The moment I closed the apartment door, Diego spun me around, shoved me against the entryway wall, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me. It was a no-nonsense kiss, no preamble, with his tongue coming straight in, seeking mine, biting my lower lip with weeks of pent-up hunger. I felt his body against mine, his chest, his hands sliding down from my neck to my shoulders, and his hard cock pressing against my hip through his jeans.

It took me a few seconds to react. I’d spent so long thinking about that possibility that when it finally came I froze for a moment, as if I needed to confirm it before believing it. When I did react, I slid my hand around to the front and squeezed the whole bulge. It was rock hard. I heard him groan into my mouth.

—Fuck —he muttered against my lips—. I’ve been hard for you for three weeks.

—And I’ve been thinking about your cock since the wedding —I answered, and kissed him again.

I grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and yanked it off. He had the torso I’d imagined: smooth, with the Caribbean sun still marked on his shoulders, small dark nipples. I ran my hand over his chest, over his stomach, pinched him until he moaned, dragged my tongue down his neck. He took my shirt off more carefully than I’d expected and then sank his teeth into my shoulder.

We took our pants off in the hallway, stumbling a little, not stopping touching each other. Diego wore dark boxer briefs that hid nothing: the full shape of his cock showed through the fabric, a damp ring at the tip. I slipped my hand inside and grabbed him. He was thick, hot, throbbing in my fist. I stroked him slowly up and down while he let his head fall back against the wall.

—Fuck, yes —he whispered—. Like that.

I got down on my knees slowly, looked him in the eyes before pulling down his underwear, and what I saw on his face was something between desire and surrender. His cock sprang stiff against his stomach, thick, the tip shining with fluid. I took him by the base with one hand and licked the whole length from his balls to the glans. Diego clenched his teeth.

I closed my eyes and took him into my mouth. He smelled like clean sweat, hot skin, man. I started slowly, my tongue circling the tip, sucking only the head, pulling off to spit on it and then taking him deeper each time. I heard his breathing change, heard it turn into broken gasps. His hands settled on my head, not squeezing at first, just resting there, as if he needed something to hold onto. Then, as I sped up, as I took him deeper until the tip hit my throat, he grabbed my hair and started pushing my head to the rhythm his hips were asking for.

—Suck that cock —I heard him say, his voice broken—. Fuck, you suck it so good.

I licked his balls too, one first, then the other, while I worked his cock full of my spit with my hand. I ran my tongue over the whole length again, from bottom to top, and sank back down until my eyes filled with tears. Diego was panting harder and harder, his back pressed to the hallway wall, his knees starting to tremble.

—Stop, stop —he said, pulling my hair upward—. I’m gonna come.

When I stood up, he said nothing. He just looked at me with glazed eyes, yanked down my boxers, and grabbed my hard cock with both hands. He started down my neck, my chest, my stomach. He stopped at each nipple, nibbled them, licked my navel. He did it attentively, as if he wanted to memorize every inch. When he got there, he closed his eyes and took one deep breath before opening his mouth.

He didn’t have much experience. You could tell in the details, in the way he searched for the angle, in the tension in his shoulders, in the occasional brush of teeth that he corrected right away. But what he lacked in technique he made up for in eagerness, and that was worth more than anything else. He sucked me off in full, choked a little and then sank back down, pulled my cock out and licked my balls hungrily, spat on me and took me back into his mouth. I put my hand on the back of his neck and set the pace slowly, watching his face as my cock went in and out of his stretched, shining lips.

—You suck cock really well for your first time —I told him.

He lifted his eyes and, without taking me out of his mouth, smiled at me with his gaze. He took me even deeper.

***

I lifted him by the hair and led him, still naked, to the sofa. I laid him on his back, with his ass at the edge of the cushion, lifted his legs and spread them. His ass looked tense, tight, untouched. His cock was twitching on its own against his stomach, dripping pre-cum down to his navel.

—Fuck, what an ass you’ve got —I murmured.

I lowered my mouth to where the body begins to be in another territory. I ran my tongue over the full cleft of his ass, bottom to top, and heard him let out a sharp gasp he hadn’t expected. I did it slowly, with my tongue first, looking for the hole, circling around it, feeling him tense up and then, little by little, give way. I spat on him and licked him again, this time pushing the tip of my tongue inside, pressing until he began to open.

He moaned through clenched teeth, head thrown back and eyes shut. His hands were clamped on the sofa cushions, his legs spread and bent against his chest, offering himself up completely. I heard him trying to control himself and not quite managing it.

—Keep going —he said, his voice hoarse—. Keep going, fuck.

I slipped a finger in, wet with spit. He took it tight, resisting at first. I moved it slowly until I felt him loosen, and then I added a second finger. Diego clenched his teeth and gasped harder. I went looking for his prostate inside him, and the moment I brushed it I saw his eyes roll back.

—There, there, fuck —he panted, his cock bouncing on its own against his stomach.

I took my time. I wanted him ready, I wanted him to ask without asking, and when I felt his hips beginning to move toward my fingers, seeking them, I knew it was time. I pulled my fingers out, spat into my hand, ran it over my cock until it was good and wet, and rested the tip against his hole.

—Sure? —I asked.

—Put it in already —he said.

I went in slowly. The head worked its way through a lot of resistance and Diego clenched his jaw so hard the tendons in his neck trembled. I stopped with the tip inside, waited, put one hand on his lower back and the other on his stomach, and felt him relax, just a little, enough. I pushed another centimeter. Then another. Until I had him all the way inside, balls deep.

—Fuck —whispered Diego, eyes closed and mouth open—. You’ve got such a thick cock.

I started moving carefully at first, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in slowly, measuring each movement, paying attention to every signal his body gave. I watched his face slowly come apart, his mouth slacken, his eyes narrow.

The sounds he made were contained, almost muffled, as if he didn’t want to hear himself. That effort to keep quiet made me harder than anything else. I found the rhythm, started fucking him harder, deeper, and he stopped fighting what he was feeling. He began to moan for real, to gasp with each thrust, to say stray things that came out on their own.

—Fuck me, fuck me —he kept repeating in a low voice—. Harder, give it to me all.

I grabbed his legs behind the knees and spread them wider, folding them up until they almost touched his shoulders, and started fucking him top to bottom, with all my hips, his balls slapping against his ass with each thrust. The sofa moved with us. Diego clung to the cushions, to the backrest, to my arms, to whatever he could. He grabbed his cock and stroked it to my rhythm, his hand slick with his own juice.

I turned him over. I put him on all fours on the sofa, ass toward me. I sank back into him in one hard thrust and Diego screamed into the cushion. I grabbed his hips and fucked him like that, watching his ass swallow my cock whole each time, seeing his back tense, seeing him lower his head when I hit him inside where it needed to be hit. I slapped his ass. Then again. His skin flushed red and he let out a long, obscene moan.

—Fuck, you’re so tight —I told him—. You’re going to make me come.

—Come —he panted, burying his face in the cushion—. Come inside, come for me.

It didn’t take long. I’d been waiting too long for that moment. I sped up, drove my hands into his hips, gave him the last thrusts all the way in, and came inside him with a grunt, feeling my cock jerk as I emptied into his ass stroke after stroke. I stayed still for a moment with my forehead against his back, saying nothing, gasping, feeling the cum running out between us.

I pulled out slowly. I turned him over again, laid him on his back with his legs still spread and his cock hard, red, soaked, throbbing against his navel. I lay down between his thighs and took him into my mouth all the way. This time he didn’t hold back. He grabbed my hair with both hands and started fucking my face, pushing my head down while he lifted his hips against my mouth.

—I’m coming, I’m coming —he panted a few seconds later—. Fuck, swallow me, swallow me.

I closed my eyes and took him in all the way to the end. I felt his cock shoot into my mouth, one spurt after another, hot, thick. I swallowed everything without pulling off, sucking him to the last drop, with Diego trembling beneath me, gasping my name in a broken voice.

When I stopped sucking and lifted my head, my face was wet and he was looking down at me as if he didn’t know where he was.

***

Afterward he lay there for a few minutes, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing slowly returning to normal, his cock still half hard against his thigh. I sat down at the far end of the sofa. Neither of us said anything. Outside, some car passed down the street and the silence came back.

After a while he got up, picked his clothes off the floor, and went to the bathroom. I heard the faucet run. When he came back, he was dressed already, his shirt tucked into his pants, as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t look at me as he passed. He just took the car keys he’d left on the hallway table and left. The door clicked shut softly.

I stayed sitting on the sofa for a good while, naked, with his taste still in my mouth and a wet stain on the cushion. Diego’s car radio playing low was still in my head.

I thought about Clara tidying up the apartment at that moment, three weeks after the most beautiful wedding I’d been to in years.

And I thought about Diego’s smile when he opened the door for me that night, as if everything that came after had already been written by then.