He groaned at the sight, somewhere deep in his throat from a place that was almost feral, and Frederic tilted his head back and sighed as Jazz gently coaxed his legs apart. He was painfully aroused, the throb of want and need pooled at the base of his spine, and he'd never known before how sex could hurt in such a beautiful, breathtaking way, his hands trembling with the feeling as they trailed across shimmer-white skin.
It was always… startling, the feelings that blurred with the lust. There was the hot, selfish desire, but it was tempered with something softer and warmer, the rough edges smoothed away. He always forgot, and never forgot, the emotions that rioted together in the pit of his stomach in moments like these, and there was humility and salvation here in lips that whimpered against his collarbone – if only he could find it. If only he could manage to never let it go. Jazz pressed the palm of his hand against Frederic's hip, kneading and soothing as he urged the long legs up around his waist. This body was so small, so fragile, so ready to break at just the gentlest pressure, and it never ceased to amaze him, the sheer amount of trust that was literally laid in his lap.
He pressed inside, slow and careful, the feel of his lover's heartbeat thrumming through his veins. There was always a split second of panic when Frederic flinched, fear that he had broken the silent promise he'd made, fear he'd finally hurt this good thing past the point of repair. But the pianist relaxed into the touch, blinking his glazed eyes open, and for a moment they would just look at each other, just feel each other and try to understand how, for this brief period of time, they were whole.