into the condom. “You’re . . . quite something,” he whispered. Something new, different and extraordinary.
Owen just kissed him again.
He could just have happily fallen asleep, but Owen eventually prodded him into action and got him out of bed and into the shower. Personally, he really didn’t need to wash immediately after sex; he’d have been okay with a shower the next morning. But Owen had the toy to deal with and probably a sore arse, and he wanted Malcolm’s company, so Malcolm gave in.
The shower was close, intimate, and Malcolm nuzzled Owen under the thick spray, grateful the man wasn’t mocking him for the tenderness. He craved that skin-on-skin feeling, craved the touch and the smell, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he kissed every bit of skin he could reach, until he ended up on his knees in the shower, eyes closed, face against Owen’s belly, Owen holding him close.
There was no self-consciousness, at least for a few moments, while Owen ran hands over his shoulders and neck, stroking his hair back from his face, just holding him while his skin drank in their touch like the water washing them clean. Who could have predicted this? In a thousand years, he couldn’t have seen an Owen walking into his life and making him feel . . . what?
It was big, and complicated, when what he wanted was so simple. He wanted the feeling of Owen’s body next to his, and he wanted sleep. The complicated would have to wait, so when they climbed out of the shower, dried off, and fell into bed, he closed his eyes to the soft sound of Owen’s breathing and slept well.
Owen woke up early, knowing it was Sunday, knowing Malcolm would sleep in. He thought about running out for breakfast, but it was just so lovely, lying in with that warm, dynamic, powerful body breathing softly next to him.
Malcolm seemed to need him.
It was an amazing thought—and not altogether comfortable. Owen’s mother needed him home—or so she said. But his mother had raised him alone, and raised him to be independent, to go out into the world and make his way. She had encouraged his experimentation and his decisions to become the man he was. Surely, she hadn’t done all that to castrate him at twenty-three, right? Make him live with her like Norman Bates until he snapped with the strain?
Malcolm curled into him, seeking heat in the cool morning, cooler now that dawn had broken and the sky outside the bedroom was turning from dark blue to gray. He pulled Malcolm into his arms and kissed a naked shoulder, a solid bicep, then dusted his lips across Malcolm’s ribs. A muffled laugh came from the pillow, and he pulled back before Malcolm’s flailing arm caught his nose.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Way to kill a mood.”
“I usually hate being tickled,” Malcolm confessed, pulling his arm under his chest and looking at Owen sideways. “What were you doing?”
“Touching you,” he said, and then kissed his shoulder again.
Malcolm closed his eyes, his defensive curl relaxing as Owen kissed up his shoulder to the back of his neck.
“What are we doing today, Yank?” Malcolm wiggled, then sighed. He probably had a hard-on. Owen rolled on top of him, his knees between Malcolm’s thighs, his own morning wood grinding up against Malcolm’s backside. He shoved a hand between Malcolm’s hips and the mattress and felt it, awakening flesh, and squeezed, letting Malcolm’s gasp roll through him, make everything tremble, wake up his nerve endings and start that ever-present ache that had begun in the depths of his groin the moment those pale eyes had met his over a glass of pissy beer.
“We’re staying in bed,” he said, grinding up against Malcolm and feeling him thrust into his hand. “We’re ordering in. We’re fucking like lemmings and talking like friends. Can you stand that?”
Malcolm groaned and thrust into Owen’s hand again, then ground his ass against Owen’s cock, and then again, and then
Owen just kissed him again.
He could just have happily fallen asleep, but Owen eventually prodded him into action and got him out of bed and into the shower. Personally, he really didn’t need to wash immediately after sex; he’d have been okay with a shower the next morning. But Owen had the toy to deal with and probably a sore arse, and he wanted Malcolm’s company, so Malcolm gave in.
The shower was close, intimate, and Malcolm nuzzled Owen under the thick spray, grateful the man wasn’t mocking him for the tenderness. He craved that skin-on-skin feeling, craved the touch and the smell, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he kissed every bit of skin he could reach, until he ended up on his knees in the shower, eyes closed, face against Owen’s belly, Owen holding him close.
There was no self-consciousness, at least for a few moments, while Owen ran hands over his shoulders and neck, stroking his hair back from his face, just holding him while his skin drank in their touch like the water washing them clean. Who could have predicted this? In a thousand years, he couldn’t have seen an Owen walking into his life and making him feel . . . what?
It was big, and complicated, when what he wanted was so simple. He wanted the feeling of Owen’s body next to his, and he wanted sleep. The complicated would have to wait, so when they climbed out of the shower, dried off, and fell into bed, he closed his eyes to the soft sound of Owen’s breathing and slept well.
Owen woke up early, knowing it was Sunday, knowing Malcolm would sleep in. He thought about running out for breakfast, but it was just so lovely, lying in with that warm, dynamic, powerful body breathing softly next to him.
Malcolm seemed to need him.
It was an amazing thought—and not altogether comfortable. Owen’s mother needed him home—or so she said. But his mother had raised him alone, and raised him to be independent, to go out into the world and make his way. She had encouraged his experimentation and his decisions to become the man he was. Surely, she hadn’t done all that to castrate him at twenty-three, right? Make him live with her like Norman Bates until he snapped with the strain?
Malcolm curled into him, seeking heat in the cool morning, cooler now that dawn had broken and the sky outside the bedroom was turning from dark blue to gray. He pulled Malcolm into his arms and kissed a naked shoulder, a solid bicep, then dusted his lips across Malcolm’s ribs. A muffled laugh came from the pillow, and he pulled back before Malcolm’s flailing arm caught his nose.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Way to kill a mood.”
“I usually hate being tickled,” Malcolm confessed, pulling his arm under his chest and looking at Owen sideways. “What were you doing?”
“Touching you,” he said, and then kissed his shoulder again.
Malcolm closed his eyes, his defensive curl relaxing as Owen kissed up his shoulder to the back of his neck.
“What are we doing today, Yank?” Malcolm wiggled, then sighed. He probably had a hard-on. Owen rolled on top of him, his knees between Malcolm’s thighs, his own morning wood grinding up against Malcolm’s backside. He shoved a hand between Malcolm’s hips and the mattress and felt it, awakening flesh, and squeezed, letting Malcolm’s gasp roll through him, make everything tremble, wake up his nerve endings and start that ever-present ache that had begun in the depths of his groin the moment those pale eyes had met his over a glass of pissy beer.
“We’re staying in bed,” he said, grinding up against Malcolm and feeling him thrust into his hand. “We’re ordering in. We’re fucking like lemmings and talking like friends. Can you stand that?”
Malcolm groaned and thrust into Owen’s hand again, then ground his ass against Owen’s cock, and then again, and then
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