trace (vestiges)
"You have absolutely no patience," he murmurs through bitten-back laughter. "Honestly…"
Although he longs to give Phoenix back even a modicum of what the other man had given him during the initial months of their relationship, he cannot help but laugh as he finally allows himself to submit to gentle, tender ministrations that evening that leave no room for Miles to reciprocate. I should have known that this is what does it for him, he thinks wryly as Phoenix's lips trace his skin, minty and fresh and still swollen from a day of stolen kisses and brilliant smiles.
And so, as he sees Phoenix's eyes plead, waiting and expectant, Miles sighs and nods, allowing himself to sink back into the couch as Phoenix gets to work, his face lighting up like a child on their birthday. His fingers make quick work of the luxurious robe in which Miles had been lounging around comfortably, exploring skin which he has traced a thousand times before; the vestiges of his touches past still haunt Miles' nerve endings, so as Miles closes his eyes and permits Phoenix to do as he will, it takes all he has to not allow the combination of the memories and the real, tender, unconditional warmth of callused fingertips and gentle flesh to not combine, to not drive him over the edge into nothing.
The heat of Phoenix's hands and mouth make quick work of him despite his best attempts to hold himself back, the hazy light coming in through the curtains transforming into the brilliant blinding white of pure pleasure behind closed eyelids. Miles gasps, arches, fingers twining into Phoenix's dark hair and pulling, that sensation of thick strands drawing his attention back to the sight beneath him.
He will never get used to it. Phoenix's hair contrasts wonderfully with Miles' skin, however; he idly focuses upon that, upon dark strands falling onto pale hands and flushed, bitten thighs covered in reddening marks. Phoenix does not pull back right away, his closed eyes contented as he begins to hum greedily around Miles' heat, blinding Miles once again.
Spluttering and oversensitive and shocked, Miles pulls Phoenix off of him. The other man does not miss a beat, climbing up to straddle Miles' lap, his lips meeting Miles' before the prosecutor can pull away. It is needy. It is wanton. It is almost childish, Miles thinks; the way Phoenix yearns so desperately, the way his lips refuse to pull away for more than a few seconds, constantly longing to be connected to Miles' skin in some way, reminds him almost of a puppy. He cannot bear their parting.
And then, his heart sinks, head clearing off its blissful haze. Without a word, he gathers Phoenix close to him, one hand securely wrapped around the man's broad back, the other reaching down to straining heat, to clear, aching desire.
Phoenix's gasps in Miles' ear are utterly delightful. He does not say that to Phoenix, though; it still feels absolutely surreal to be able to do this when only twenty-four hours before, they had still be apart, tiptoeing around the boundary of that fragile, unbreakable distance between the two.
A part of it is also that he does not know how to be honest with his wants. He knows this. A lifetime of suppressing his physical desire is not easy to break, after all; he has only ever been submissive with Phoenix. Actually taking and giving the way he had been too scared to do still feels wrong somehow.
He shoves the voice which tells him to stop this nonsense away. All that matter is that Phoenix looks fulfilled at last, his lips parted in blissful desire as Miles' lips traverse across a broad chest, his free hand grasping and stroking and caressing below, each movement precise and experimental to see what causes Phoenix's body to stiffen, to relax, to shudder, to lean closer, closer, even closer into Miles, the attorney unconsciously resting his weight more and more into Miles' touch.
Miles accepts that weight, that burden. That is what he had come back to do. As he feels his own chest splatter with burning liquid, Phoenix's body shivering as the man bucks and groans and gasps, coming undone in Miles' careful touch, he allows his lips to pull away from pert flesh at last to look at Phoenix, to watch the man sink properly into Miles' lap, exhausted.
Phoenix looks sated. Safe. Happy.
For that, Miles is grateful. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Phoenix's chest, sucking in a deep breath before murmuring, "Let's go wash up. No staining the couch. I refuse to explain to my housekeeper if anything becomes messy."
Immediately, Phoenix's rumbling laugh fills the air. "Got it. Let's go."
Their fingers fit, just as they had since they were boys. It's a comforting thought, to feel like nothing's really changed since then. Everything else in his life has come and gone, but Phoenix…
He squeezes Phoenix's hand unconsciously. The attorney glances over his shoulder to look at Miles as they make their way up the stairs. "What is it?"
Flushing, Miles shakes his head. "It's nothing."
It's true. Nothing's different.
Phoenix rolls his eyes, but his smile only grows. "Whatever you say."
When Phoenix turns back up the stairs, Miles allows himself to smile at last. Phoenix's hand still holds on a little too tight. Nothing has change.
That's why it means so much.