needed this confirmation of something he should have known so well already.
Ben wasn’t faking it either. He found himself saying incredible things, which he’d never thought to hear himself utter—how he wanted Nik’s spill deep inside him, how only Nikolas could fill him and give him a sense of himself. But it was this last confession that undid him. As the words eased out on the exquisite delight of Nikolas once more pulling out and then opening him up and entering again, Ben’s throat seized up, a deep sob emerged, and before he could stop himself, he flung his arms across his face for privacy, and the pleasure was buried under a desolate confusion at who he was.
Nikolas faltered. Ben felt him withdraw, but then he took him in another way. Nikolas’s arms came around him, dragging him into a tight spoon, just holding him as the humiliating sobs wracked his body. He didn’t even know what he was crying for. Once he’d started, he was distraught for that—for the fact that he was so unlike himself, so unmanned by everything in his life that he didn’t know who he had become any more.
It was only when he heard an agonised whisper, “Please don’t, Ben, you’re killing me,” that he turned, forcing himself to calmness, to find Nikolas’s stressed and worn face creased with anguish.
Ben hiccupped a chuckle. Nikolas caught the incredulity and disdain for their weakness and snorted a little too, and then they couldn’t stop.
As Ben had noted only recently, Nikolas rarely gave way to this emotion. When he did he was usually laughing at Ben, not with him, so this was something new yet again. Ben reckoned it was a great deal better than crying together, which they’d been embarrassingly on the verge of, so he kissed Nikolas through their amusement and told him he was a pillock, a wassock and a wanker, which only made Nikolas laugh more with incomprehension and return the favour in Danish, proving to Ben yet again that there were many dubious terms of affection in that language he did not yet understand.
Unbelievable to Ben, they had now been in bed for a few hours and neither had come yet. He slid onto Nikolas, lying heavy on his lean belly, feeling the occasional rumble of laughter still. He stared down into Nikolas’s eyes and brushed his fringe away, noting again the grey that had started to speckle the blond. He brushed his finger once more over the bruising marring the unbearably beautiful features. How had he thought he hated this man? He’d always believed that nothing Nikolas ever did to him would stop him from loving him or drive him away—that Nikolas could murder him and his ghost would come back beseeching Nikolas to kill him again. He knew now this wasn’t true. He’d always thought in violent terms—Nikolas maiming him, executing him. He’d never been a person who thought about love or matters of the heart. He hadn’t had much of a heart until he’d fallen in love with Nikolas Mikkelsen. That catchall forgiveness, Ben realised now, didn’t extend to Nikolas cheating on him.
It was a simple discovery but a profound one at the same time. If Ben had ever thought about Nikolas with someone else, it had been in hypothetical terms. It wasn’t theoretical now. He’d suffered an instant, debilitating, almost lethal pain thinking Nikolas was sharing his body with another man. Not love—Ben hadn’t for one moment thought Nikolas was having a loving relationship with Jackson Keane. He’d known it was just sex. But that had almost destroyed him. Why? Even though Tim occasionally professed annoyance that Squeezy was happy with their open relationship, they both saw and fucked other people. Although, when Ben thought about it, Squeezy’s intervention in the bedroom in Devon had seemed to be as much about Tim as it had been about him, despite the fact that Squeezy had apparently been put on Ben-guard duty by Nikolas…
But imagining Nikolas…his mouth for example. Ben put his finger to the
Ben wasn’t faking it either. He found himself saying incredible things, which he’d never thought to hear himself utter—how he wanted Nik’s spill deep inside him, how only Nikolas could fill him and give him a sense of himself. But it was this last confession that undid him. As the words eased out on the exquisite delight of Nikolas once more pulling out and then opening him up and entering again, Ben’s throat seized up, a deep sob emerged, and before he could stop himself, he flung his arms across his face for privacy, and the pleasure was buried under a desolate confusion at who he was.
Nikolas faltered. Ben felt him withdraw, but then he took him in another way. Nikolas’s arms came around him, dragging him into a tight spoon, just holding him as the humiliating sobs wracked his body. He didn’t even know what he was crying for. Once he’d started, he was distraught for that—for the fact that he was so unlike himself, so unmanned by everything in his life that he didn’t know who he had become any more.
It was only when he heard an agonised whisper, “Please don’t, Ben, you’re killing me,” that he turned, forcing himself to calmness, to find Nikolas’s stressed and worn face creased with anguish.
Ben hiccupped a chuckle. Nikolas caught the incredulity and disdain for their weakness and snorted a little too, and then they couldn’t stop.
As Ben had noted only recently, Nikolas rarely gave way to this emotion. When he did he was usually laughing at Ben, not with him, so this was something new yet again. Ben reckoned it was a great deal better than crying together, which they’d been embarrassingly on the verge of, so he kissed Nikolas through their amusement and told him he was a pillock, a wassock and a wanker, which only made Nikolas laugh more with incomprehension and return the favour in Danish, proving to Ben yet again that there were many dubious terms of affection in that language he did not yet understand.
Unbelievable to Ben, they had now been in bed for a few hours and neither had come yet. He slid onto Nikolas, lying heavy on his lean belly, feeling the occasional rumble of laughter still. He stared down into Nikolas’s eyes and brushed his fringe away, noting again the grey that had started to speckle the blond. He brushed his finger once more over the bruising marring the unbearably beautiful features. How had he thought he hated this man? He’d always believed that nothing Nikolas ever did to him would stop him from loving him or drive him away—that Nikolas could murder him and his ghost would come back beseeching Nikolas to kill him again. He knew now this wasn’t true. He’d always thought in violent terms—Nikolas maiming him, executing him. He’d never been a person who thought about love or matters of the heart. He hadn’t had much of a heart until he’d fallen in love with Nikolas Mikkelsen. That catchall forgiveness, Ben realised now, didn’t extend to Nikolas cheating on him.
It was a simple discovery but a profound one at the same time. If Ben had ever thought about Nikolas with someone else, it had been in hypothetical terms. It wasn’t theoretical now. He’d suffered an instant, debilitating, almost lethal pain thinking Nikolas was sharing his body with another man. Not love—Ben hadn’t for one moment thought Nikolas was having a loving relationship with Jackson Keane. He’d known it was just sex. But that had almost destroyed him. Why? Even though Tim occasionally professed annoyance that Squeezy was happy with their open relationship, they both saw and fucked other people. Although, when Ben thought about it, Squeezy’s intervention in the bedroom in Devon had seemed to be as much about Tim as it had been about him, despite the fact that Squeezy had apparently been put on Ben-guard duty by Nikolas…
But imagining Nikolas…his mouth for example. Ben put his finger to the
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