ear, listening for the tiny hitches of breathing that said this was working.
“Well, you wouldn’t be you,” Crick conceded, rucking Deacon’s dress shirt and T-shirt up from his waist and shoving his hands between the shirt and Deacon’s hot skin. Deacon still didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but what he had was so damned soft, Crick wished he’d grow more.
“I wouldn’t be the person Jon needed,” Deacon said firmly, and then he let Crick take him to bed.
C RICK remembered that moment now, as he sat on the couch in his customary place to watch stupid, brain-killing television. Deacon was in his non customary place, snuggled back against Crick’s chest when normally he sat in the recliner and read something that would put Crick to sleep in a smart minute. That was okay, though. Crick liked it when Deacon let himself be cuddled like this. Anything that put them into proximity this close to bedtime was a definite plus.
Deacon hadn’t said much when he’d come back from the barn. He’d washed his plate, sat next to Crick as Crick watched television, and said good night to Benny when she took off to spend the night with Drew.
“What did you two decide?” Crick asked before the door had even shut behind them.
“That I’d squirt in a cup, they could count my swimmers, and we could see if this was even possible,” Deacon told him back.
Crick grunted and gathered in his armload of cowboy. “So….”
“Don’t get excited,” Deacon quashed. “We’re doing nothing important. I’m not coming in a turkey baster or anything, we’re just seeing if it would work in the first place.”
“So you’re gonna go to a doctor’s office and come in a cup?” Crick asked, the idea of blowing Deacon in a doctor’s office holding a certain exhibitionistic appeal that he would not ever tell Deacon turned him on.
Deacon chuckled like he wasn’t fooled even a little bit. “I doubt it,” he said. “When Jon was getting his swimmers counted, he squirted in a cup at home and then just made sure to get it to the doctor’s within a certain time. I’m sure that’ll be what they do here.”
Crick made a little hmmm sound in his throat, clearly disappointed. “Well, I get to help, right?”
There was a shifting at Crick’s chest, and Deacon turned his head to look him squarely in the eye. “Would there ever be a time when you weren’t welcome to help with that?” he asked dryly.
Crick grinned. “God, I hope not.” Something loosened in him. Yeah, maybe Deacon would stick to his guns and this baby wouldn’t happen. But in the meantime….
“Wanna practice?” Crick asked, his whole body tingling.
Deacon nodded, and before Crick could even move from the couch, Deacon slid to his knees and shoved his hands up Crick’s shirt. His mouth, pillowy and hot, suckled tender mouthfuls of the white skin of Crick’s tummy, while his tongue tickled the places between. Crick groaned a little and shuddered, finding himself pushed back against the couch with his legs splayed in front of him so Deacon could busy himself at the fly of his jeans.
“Oh God!” Deacon grabbed handfuls of denim at his hips and yanked down, and Crick’s cock was suddenly ramped up and full as Deacon slid his mouth over it and sucked, hard. “Jesus, Deacon! ”
Deacon pulled back and laughed at him, a slick circle of spit around his full lips. “There is nobody here in our living room, Crick. We can fuck on the couch if we want!”
He sounded like a little kid, and Crick would have laughed at his enthusiasm if—oh fuck, there he went, taking Crick all the way back into his throat. Deacon’s gag reflex was usually hair-trigger, so he must have been hungry for Crick, and Crick was… oh God… he was dying… it was….
“Not so fast!” he begged, and Deacon pulled back and licked around his head, then tickled his frenulum and lowered his head sideways and mouthed his balls.
“Fast,” Deacon panted, his voice strained
“Well, you wouldn’t be you,” Crick conceded, rucking Deacon’s dress shirt and T-shirt up from his waist and shoving his hands between the shirt and Deacon’s hot skin. Deacon still didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but what he had was so damned soft, Crick wished he’d grow more.
“I wouldn’t be the person Jon needed,” Deacon said firmly, and then he let Crick take him to bed.
C RICK remembered that moment now, as he sat on the couch in his customary place to watch stupid, brain-killing television. Deacon was in his non customary place, snuggled back against Crick’s chest when normally he sat in the recliner and read something that would put Crick to sleep in a smart minute. That was okay, though. Crick liked it when Deacon let himself be cuddled like this. Anything that put them into proximity this close to bedtime was a definite plus.
Deacon hadn’t said much when he’d come back from the barn. He’d washed his plate, sat next to Crick as Crick watched television, and said good night to Benny when she took off to spend the night with Drew.
“What did you two decide?” Crick asked before the door had even shut behind them.
“That I’d squirt in a cup, they could count my swimmers, and we could see if this was even possible,” Deacon told him back.
Crick grunted and gathered in his armload of cowboy. “So….”
“Don’t get excited,” Deacon quashed. “We’re doing nothing important. I’m not coming in a turkey baster or anything, we’re just seeing if it would work in the first place.”
“So you’re gonna go to a doctor’s office and come in a cup?” Crick asked, the idea of blowing Deacon in a doctor’s office holding a certain exhibitionistic appeal that he would not ever tell Deacon turned him on.
Deacon chuckled like he wasn’t fooled even a little bit. “I doubt it,” he said. “When Jon was getting his swimmers counted, he squirted in a cup at home and then just made sure to get it to the doctor’s within a certain time. I’m sure that’ll be what they do here.”
Crick made a little hmmm sound in his throat, clearly disappointed. “Well, I get to help, right?”
There was a shifting at Crick’s chest, and Deacon turned his head to look him squarely in the eye. “Would there ever be a time when you weren’t welcome to help with that?” he asked dryly.
Crick grinned. “God, I hope not.” Something loosened in him. Yeah, maybe Deacon would stick to his guns and this baby wouldn’t happen. But in the meantime….
“Wanna practice?” Crick asked, his whole body tingling.
Deacon nodded, and before Crick could even move from the couch, Deacon slid to his knees and shoved his hands up Crick’s shirt. His mouth, pillowy and hot, suckled tender mouthfuls of the white skin of Crick’s tummy, while his tongue tickled the places between. Crick groaned a little and shuddered, finding himself pushed back against the couch with his legs splayed in front of him so Deacon could busy himself at the fly of his jeans.
“Oh God!” Deacon grabbed handfuls of denim at his hips and yanked down, and Crick’s cock was suddenly ramped up and full as Deacon slid his mouth over it and sucked, hard. “Jesus, Deacon! ”
Deacon pulled back and laughed at him, a slick circle of spit around his full lips. “There is nobody here in our living room, Crick. We can fuck on the couch if we want!”
He sounded like a little kid, and Crick would have laughed at his enthusiasm if—oh fuck, there he went, taking Crick all the way back into his throat. Deacon’s gag reflex was usually hair-trigger, so he must have been hungry for Crick, and Crick was… oh God… he was dying… it was….
“Not so fast!” he begged, and Deacon pulled back and licked around his head, then tickled his frenulum and lowered his head sideways and mouthed his balls.
“Fast,” Deacon panted, his voice strained
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