Slow, he said. Go slow.
So I do, not really minding. I'm glad to do what he wants, since it
makes him happy, and it makes him smile. Funny what you don't miss
when you don't know it's there.
His head leans back and to the side, arcing his neck into the line of
his chest.
I like the feel of his skin, warm and soft, the way his muscles
twitch spasmodically.
Even kissing him, even focusing on making him tremble under my hand,
I hear myself panting, my body clearly impatient with his request.
But he said slow.
So I can concentrate on this for now.
Until he tries a trick of his own, slips a hand under my shirt and
strokes my nipple, not *exactly* what I expected but--
I yelp and grip, maybe too hard because his body jerks and he kicks
me sharply in the shin.
Not what I expected, but he can do it again. As much as he wants.
I keep kissing him, tasting his skin, breathing in the smell of his
aftershave and listening to him groan and pant in my ear.
"You're beautiful."
Because he is, black hair and shy eyes and a sweet, sweet smile that
makes me wish I could hold him all day, damn the consequences.
You beautiful, wonderful, sweet, stupid, brilliant man. I liked you
before. I admit I wanted you. (Still want you, want you more than
before, even, want you in bed, on the floor, with me). Oh, Speed, do
you have any inkling what you *do* to me?
"You are..."
He touches my face, drawing over it, like a blind man. His lips
parted in beckoning, half a smile curving into his cheek. His touch,
so close, makes me flicker my eyes on instinct. He touches my lips
and I feel it like a noise in my ears. Lick the tips of his fingers,
kiss his hand, salt-sweat sharp as old copper.
I hold him still, hold him under my body, wrapping my hand behind his
head to kiss him deep, suck his tongue.
//"I didn't want you to find out..."
"Why?"//
I remember the heat of his blush when I kissed him that first time,
pink and feverish on my face. I remember the weight of his hands on
my waist when he kissed me back, eager with caution thrown to the
wind, as if, as if...
As if he wanted to go down happy.
I feel his muscles tense and tremble as I play with the hairs on his
belly, stroke and coax.
Because he likes it.
//"H--oh, jesus--oh, fuck-ing-christ--oh, boss..."
Boss.//
The first time, I bit him. Bit his shoulder. Not enough to bleed
but the bruise was there, still is there. The first time, the
second, the third, he growls low in his throat when he comes and I
feel it, my head resting on the crux of his neck and back.
I kiss his face blindly, feel his hands grope and grasp for the
buttons of my shirt, snaps two off and undoes one more.
//We get dressed in the morning and he wears my shirt, loose on him,
arms just a little too long.
"Why?"
"I like it."
"T-shirts are easier to get off..."
"C'mon, H, I thought you liked a challenge."//
He plants his hands on my torso and I slide his shirt off, letting it
catch and bunch on his arms like cloth handcuffs. He tosses it off,
lies back on the floor with his arms behind his hand, beckon, wait, a
look in his eyes. They've gone sort of murkily dark, cool river on a
hot day, promising relief. His skin is pale against the dark orange-
red carpet, pale and furred with black. I lie on my side next to
him, prop my hand on one hand and trace the line of his torso with
the other. He watches me, I watch him. He looks dazed but with
Speed there's always something going on inside. I don't kiss him now
because I want to watch him.
So slow it's almost maddening, and my body is berating me to do
something, something. Anything.
Map his chest, shoulder to collarbone to sternum to collarbone to
shoulder, shoulder to pectoral, pectoral to sternum and back again,
against or with the grain of hair sprouting in bird-shape, almost.
His eyes squeeze shut and his lips part, teeth bared. He likes
this.
Understatement, Horatio, he loves it
He breathes hard and shaky, tense with trying to stay still.
I explore him with my mouth, trailing wet, high pitched whimper too
close to my ear. He grasps, somehow the last of my shirt's buttons
done away with, digs bruising into my back.
//"So...so...uh, what...what...um, how does this work?"
"I thought you majored in biology."
"This...was *not* in the textbook, H..."
"This would probably fall under...uh...experimental research."//
His nipples are hard, doubtless his dick too, though he *did* say go
slow...
Right. He wants to be driven crazy, I can do that. Maybe.
I lick, he gasps and grasps and *digs*, deep, ow, dammit, gonna be
blood from that--
I bite.
Not meaning to, but shock...
He gives a low, hoarse groaning cry and jerks his hips against me.
I pull back a little, and the look on his face is dumb, drugged
lust. He draws faint circles on my back, kisses me languidly.
"Do that again..." he whispers.
"I don't want to hurt you." Because it must've hurt. I *bit* him.
(Again).
"It didn't hurt....well, actually...it kinda hurt. But then it felt
good."
//"Have you done this before?"
"Which?"
"Had sex with a guy?"
"Yes...a couple of times. Why?"
"I haven't."//
He'd never gotten fucked by somebody before. I hadn't had sex with
another guy since being on the bomb squad, since being married and
then divorced.
"Do it again?" He asks hopefully, stroking both my nipples, his
hands rough, and I swear he could make me do anything.
So I bite his nipple again, lightly, barely grazing, testing his
reaction. He does like it. He hisses and whimpers and scratches raw
streaks down my back.
It's learning things all over again.
//"Look, Caine. I appreciate your sense of integrity and all, but
come on, look around you. Integrity? Honor? Stuff like that isn't
worth a rat's ass here."
"So where's it worth something?"
"Nowadays? Kid, it ain't worth anything anywhere. Remember that."
"I will."//
Taught to keep your eyes open, your hands steady, and your focus
clear.
Good plan.
//"Caine, listen. You've gotta learn sometimes that the ends justify
the means."
"So it doesn't matter that McMahon got three people shot getting to
his suspect?"
"He got the suspect, Caine. That's what matters."//
So is this defusing a bomb, lying here kissing him and going slow,
fucking him, as he puts it, `into the mattress'? Speed's not a kid.
He's not the 23 year old Megan first encountered in the crimelab. He
knows what he's doing. Most of the time. Speed knows so much about
everything that it's hard not to leave him on his own to figure
things out, but I can't, because he doesn't have the experience yet.
Or the confidence.
//"Sorry, boss, really, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"
"Speed, calm down. It's okay. Really."//
He links his hands loosely around my back when I return to kissing
his face, licking below his jaw. He thrusts his hips up against me,
groaning. I could say something, maybe--
(still wanna go slow, speed?)
--but I don't think I'm coherent enough.
My hands drop to his belly, his waist, his belt. I squeeze his
erection through his jeans, and watch all coherent thought dissolve
from his eyes. Not bad.
So I do, not really minding. I'm glad to do what he wants, since it
makes him happy, and it makes him smile. Funny what you don't miss
when you don't know it's there.
His head leans back and to the side, arcing his neck into the line of
his chest.
I like the feel of his skin, warm and soft, the way his muscles
twitch spasmodically.
Even kissing him, even focusing on making him tremble under my hand,
I hear myself panting, my body clearly impatient with his request.
But he said slow.
So I can concentrate on this for now.
Until he tries a trick of his own, slips a hand under my shirt and
strokes my nipple, not *exactly* what I expected but--
I yelp and grip, maybe too hard because his body jerks and he kicks
me sharply in the shin.
Not what I expected, but he can do it again. As much as he wants.
I keep kissing him, tasting his skin, breathing in the smell of his
aftershave and listening to him groan and pant in my ear.
"You're beautiful."
Because he is, black hair and shy eyes and a sweet, sweet smile that
makes me wish I could hold him all day, damn the consequences.
You beautiful, wonderful, sweet, stupid, brilliant man. I liked you
before. I admit I wanted you. (Still want you, want you more than
before, even, want you in bed, on the floor, with me). Oh, Speed, do
you have any inkling what you *do* to me?
"You are..."
He touches my face, drawing over it, like a blind man. His lips
parted in beckoning, half a smile curving into his cheek. His touch,
so close, makes me flicker my eyes on instinct. He touches my lips
and I feel it like a noise in my ears. Lick the tips of his fingers,
kiss his hand, salt-sweat sharp as old copper.
I hold him still, hold him under my body, wrapping my hand behind his
head to kiss him deep, suck his tongue.
//"I didn't want you to find out..."
"Why?"//
I remember the heat of his blush when I kissed him that first time,
pink and feverish on my face. I remember the weight of his hands on
my waist when he kissed me back, eager with caution thrown to the
wind, as if, as if...
As if he wanted to go down happy.
I feel his muscles tense and tremble as I play with the hairs on his
belly, stroke and coax.
Because he likes it.
//"H--oh, jesus--oh, fuck-ing-christ--oh, boss..."
Boss.//
The first time, I bit him. Bit his shoulder. Not enough to bleed
but the bruise was there, still is there. The first time, the
second, the third, he growls low in his throat when he comes and I
feel it, my head resting on the crux of his neck and back.
I kiss his face blindly, feel his hands grope and grasp for the
buttons of my shirt, snaps two off and undoes one more.
//We get dressed in the morning and he wears my shirt, loose on him,
arms just a little too long.
"Why?"
"I like it."
"T-shirts are easier to get off..."
"C'mon, H, I thought you liked a challenge."//
He plants his hands on my torso and I slide his shirt off, letting it
catch and bunch on his arms like cloth handcuffs. He tosses it off,
lies back on the floor with his arms behind his hand, beckon, wait, a
look in his eyes. They've gone sort of murkily dark, cool river on a
hot day, promising relief. His skin is pale against the dark orange-
red carpet, pale and furred with black. I lie on my side next to
him, prop my hand on one hand and trace the line of his torso with
the other. He watches me, I watch him. He looks dazed but with
Speed there's always something going on inside. I don't kiss him now
because I want to watch him.
So slow it's almost maddening, and my body is berating me to do
something, something. Anything.
Map his chest, shoulder to collarbone to sternum to collarbone to
shoulder, shoulder to pectoral, pectoral to sternum and back again,
against or with the grain of hair sprouting in bird-shape, almost.
His eyes squeeze shut and his lips part, teeth bared. He likes
this.
Understatement, Horatio, he loves it
He breathes hard and shaky, tense with trying to stay still.
I explore him with my mouth, trailing wet, high pitched whimper too
close to my ear. He grasps, somehow the last of my shirt's buttons
done away with, digs bruising into my back.
//"So...so...uh, what...what...um, how does this work?"
"I thought you majored in biology."
"This...was *not* in the textbook, H..."
"This would probably fall under...uh...experimental research."//
His nipples are hard, doubtless his dick too, though he *did* say go
slow...
Right. He wants to be driven crazy, I can do that. Maybe.
I lick, he gasps and grasps and *digs*, deep, ow, dammit, gonna be
blood from that--
I bite.
Not meaning to, but shock...
He gives a low, hoarse groaning cry and jerks his hips against me.
I pull back a little, and the look on his face is dumb, drugged
lust. He draws faint circles on my back, kisses me languidly.
"Do that again..." he whispers.
"I don't want to hurt you." Because it must've hurt. I *bit* him.
(Again).
"It didn't hurt....well, actually...it kinda hurt. But then it felt
good."
//"Have you done this before?"
"Which?"
"Had sex with a guy?"
"Yes...a couple of times. Why?"
"I haven't."//
He'd never gotten fucked by somebody before. I hadn't had sex with
another guy since being on the bomb squad, since being married and
then divorced.
"Do it again?" He asks hopefully, stroking both my nipples, his
hands rough, and I swear he could make me do anything.
So I bite his nipple again, lightly, barely grazing, testing his
reaction. He does like it. He hisses and whimpers and scratches raw
streaks down my back.
It's learning things all over again.
//"Look, Caine. I appreciate your sense of integrity and all, but
come on, look around you. Integrity? Honor? Stuff like that isn't
worth a rat's ass here."
"So where's it worth something?"
"Nowadays? Kid, it ain't worth anything anywhere. Remember that."
"I will."//
Taught to keep your eyes open, your hands steady, and your focus
clear.
Good plan.
//"Caine, listen. You've gotta learn sometimes that the ends justify
the means."
"So it doesn't matter that McMahon got three people shot getting to
his suspect?"
"He got the suspect, Caine. That's what matters."//
So is this defusing a bomb, lying here kissing him and going slow,
fucking him, as he puts it, `into the mattress'? Speed's not a kid.
He's not the 23 year old Megan first encountered in the crimelab. He
knows what he's doing. Most of the time. Speed knows so much about
everything that it's hard not to leave him on his own to figure
things out, but I can't, because he doesn't have the experience yet.
Or the confidence.
//"Sorry, boss, really, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"
"Speed, calm down. It's okay. Really."//
He links his hands loosely around my back when I return to kissing
his face, licking below his jaw. He thrusts his hips up against me,
groaning. I could say something, maybe--
(still wanna go slow, speed?)
--but I don't think I'm coherent enough.
My hands drop to his belly, his waist, his belt. I squeeze his
erection through his jeans, and watch all coherent thought dissolve
from his eyes. Not bad.