Chapter Two ~ Learning the Points of the Compass Again
continued from here.
...not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves.
Bank the fire he’s building in my sacrum with measured breaths that rise and rise until his rough whisper stills them for a long moment and I lean up to study the glistening swell of his mouth, the dark crescent of lashes that fringe his half-closed eyes. Feel my cock jump as he licks his lips and swallows; cup his chin in my palm and trace his bottom lip with my thumb.
“It begins,” I tell him, sitting up as I outline the curve of his mouth with my fingertips, pressing my legs against his shoulders, urging him to mirror me, “with balance.”
I guide him as he repositions himself to face me, and relax into the tremulous joy of looking at his body. He links his ankles behind my back as I pull close to him, my smaller thighs resting on his bone-heavy ones. Feel a fresh jolt of pleasure as our hard cocks bounce against one another and lean in to press my mouth on his collarbone.
Map a side trip of kisses along his jaw and cheek, feel the planes of his skull in my hand as I pull his face to mine and rest my brow against his. The scent of my body on his breath, such a narcissistic and decadent pleasure, makes me smile, breathe deeper.
“It begins,” I tell him truthfully, “like this.”
I watch him. Looking at me. I try not to wonder what he sees. Those sky blue eyes and there is nothing that can be hidden here. Nothing that can be removed or redone or covered up.
Just me and just him.
Shadows from the fire dance over his chest. There is a sparkle here and there from water droplets that cling and I have to clamp down on the urge to sit up and taste them all. One by one. He wants me here, and so I stay.
Then he's over me, on me. His cock brushing and bumping mine and my fingers dig into the covers for a moment, then I give in and give up and reach for his shoulders. Light touches that dance over his skin, the scratch of my nails. My legs a little tighter around his hips.
I stretch blindly with one arm for the nightstand and grab a tube. Bring it back to us and I've almost squeezed it on my palm when I realize that it is blood red, brick red. Dark red. Not lube, but oil paint. The scent is so heavy in my room that I ...
I toss it off to the side and reach again. Find the lighter plastic tube I was looking for and I coat my palm. My fingers moving between us, I grab our cocks and roll them together in tight, quick movements.
"Fuck me, TJ. I want to feel you inside me."
I want to see his face when he comes in me, over me. I want to see him lose, perhaps, a modicum of the control he holds himself so tightly under. Just a bit. Just enough to let me know that I exist. That I've touched him. Somehow, somewhere.
"Please."
...not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves.
Bank the fire he’s building in my sacrum with measured breaths that rise and rise until his rough whisper stills them for a long moment and I lean up to study the glistening swell of his mouth, the dark crescent of lashes that fringe his half-closed eyes. Feel my cock jump as he licks his lips and swallows; cup his chin in my palm and trace his bottom lip with my thumb.
“It begins,” I tell him, sitting up as I outline the curve of his mouth with my fingertips, pressing my legs against his shoulders, urging him to mirror me, “with balance.”
I guide him as he repositions himself to face me, and relax into the tremulous joy of looking at his body. He links his ankles behind my back as I pull close to him, my smaller thighs resting on his bone-heavy ones. Feel a fresh jolt of pleasure as our hard cocks bounce against one another and lean in to press my mouth on his collarbone.
Map a side trip of kisses along his jaw and cheek, feel the planes of his skull in my hand as I pull his face to mine and rest my brow against his. The scent of my body on his breath, such a narcissistic and decadent pleasure, makes me smile, breathe deeper.
“It begins,” I tell him truthfully, “like this.”
I watch him. Looking at me. I try not to wonder what he sees. Those sky blue eyes and there is nothing that can be hidden here. Nothing that can be removed or redone or covered up.
Just me and just him.
Shadows from the fire dance over his chest. There is a sparkle here and there from water droplets that cling and I have to clamp down on the urge to sit up and taste them all. One by one. He wants me here, and so I stay.
Then he's over me, on me. His cock brushing and bumping mine and my fingers dig into the covers for a moment, then I give in and give up and reach for his shoulders. Light touches that dance over his skin, the scratch of my nails. My legs a little tighter around his hips.
I stretch blindly with one arm for the nightstand and grab a tube. Bring it back to us and I've almost squeezed it on my palm when I realize that it is blood red, brick red. Dark red. Not lube, but oil paint. The scent is so heavy in my room that I ...
I toss it off to the side and reach again. Find the lighter plastic tube I was looking for and I coat my palm. My fingers moving between us, I grab our cocks and roll them together in tight, quick movements.
"Fuck me, TJ. I want to feel you inside me."
I want to see his face when he comes in me, over me. I want to see him lose, perhaps, a modicum of the control he holds himself so tightly under. Just a bit. Just enough to let me know that I exist. That I've touched him. Somehow, somewhere.
"Please."