He hissed out a soft breath at the burning, the stretch, color rushing to his cheeks at the sound, and Jazz wrapped the fingers of one hand into the black hair, pulled Frederic's head down to his shoulder with the other hand gently steadying the small of his back. The pianist whimpered against the heated skin and felt Jazz shift, sliding in deep. And then he pushed in a little harder than before, past the space of last resistance, and Frederic gasped and sobbed and they were pressed hip to hip.
This was the one part that didn't get easier, never ceased to take his breath away in pain and pleasure and awe. This was the moment when his body belonged wholly to someone else, and someone else's body belonged to him. This was the moment of surrender, the time before euphoria took over when he could close his eyes and just feel, the throb of blood harsh and beautiful against the aching muscles that had been forced to accommodate. It hurt – it always hurt – but it was amazing, too, to know that he had done this, could do this for the one person he cared about more than anyone else. It was amazing to know he could pleasure his lover with just this, just the offering of his body and his tears and his blood and his affection. He loved this. Jazz trailed his free hand down until it rested in the curve of Frederic's waist and oh, he loved this, the way Jazz shivered as he kissed his throat, the way he groaned, the way he tried so hard not to move yet, to hold on a little longer. Frederic found his mouth in the half-darkness and kissed him with all the delicate passion that was burning inside, everything he wanted Jazz to know, everything he needed him to understand. And then he braced his arms against the broad shoulders and rocked forward, experimenting, reveling in the tightening of hands on his hips and breath against his body. He would never take this, this power for granted, he had seen it make people and break people and tear them down and build them up and leave them shattered messes on the floor either way and ahh-! he would wield this power always, always, always with a tender hand.
Jazz slid one hand down to lift him up, to help him, and Frederic let him take control, let him think he was in control because that's what Jazz needed, to control even from his place underneath. Instead he set about kissing every square inch of skin, musk and heat and sweat sweet against his lips, licks and nips and kisses and shivers and moans. He rocked forward again, upward, and whimpered at the feel of iron velvet pressing inside. There was some part of him, some gentlemanly part that could never get over the shame of sex, the rush of blood to his face at the sounds that fell from his own mouth, but the way Jazz held him, looked at him as though he could do no wrong the way he was looking at him now, it made it all okay somehow. And even though it ached, still, hurt in places no one had even touched before, there were hands and a heartbeat and a man he loved very much and he would give this every, every day, suffer that blushing throb every morning for the rest of his life if he could just hold on to this feeling forever.