body. O ne minute they were kissing, and the next, his open
mouth was engulfing Brian’s swollen cock. Brian about came off the
bed, it was so sudden, and then Tate’s mouth tightened and he
sucked in his cheeks and bobbed his head up and down so his lips
massaged the ridge of Brian’s circumcised cockhead. His fist came
up to the base and squeezed, and within seconds, Brian was
seeing stars.
As blow jobs went, it was not the most expertly given—no
foreplay, no tasting, no licking or teasing—it was all about Tate’s
craving to have Brian’s flesh down his throat.
Brian could live with that.
It took a minute, maybe two, before Brian thrust into Tate’s
mouth hard, moaned “C oming.…” with just enough time to give
Tate some warning, and started shaking with gimme gimme gimme
gotta have it ba-bee before he groaned hard and came. His entire
body came off the bed, and he clutched Tate to his groin as he
shook and shuddered and groaned some more, curling around his
dream boy as he dumped come into his mouth.
His dream boy swallowed like it was something he’d dreamed
about too.
When the convulsions of climax had stopped, Tate pushed
himself back up to face to face, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, and grinned.
“No one’s let me do that before.”
Brian nodded. “I can see why,” he breathed, stil trembling.
“Your technique’s sort of dangerous. You suck me any harder and
you’l be choking on my eyebal s.”
Tate’s grin widened and he chortled softly, and Brian kissed
him because he had to.
Talker | Amy Lane
86
They fell asleep, practically in the middle of the kiss. Brian
woke up a little later and reached down to arrange the covers over
both of them, and while he was doing that, Tate mumbled
something about “little spoon” and rolled over on his side. Brian
took him up on it, and they fel asleep, Brian’s front to Tate’s back,
so Brian could engulf Tate in his arms and his wide shoulders and
keep his dream boy safe.
It didn’t work. Tate twitched in his sleep. Not constantly, but
occasional y. And he almost woke up twice with bad dreams. E ach
time, Brian thought about al the times no one had been there for
Talker when he’d had bad dreams, and his chest hurt.
It hurt bad enough to wake him up about half an hour before
his alarm. He laid there, snuggling into Talker’s body and peering
thoughtfully at his shoulder tattoo in the gray light coming in from
his window, and thought very carefully about what he wanted for
himself, and what he wanted for Talker.
He was slow on the uptake sometimes, but he did get shit
eventual y, when he had some quiet in his own skull to figure them
out.
“What are you thinking about?” Talker’s voice was sleepy, and
Brian kissed the skin on his shoulder with a small smile.
“How do you know I’m thinking?”
“Dunno. Just do. It’s like the silence changes.”
That made Brian smile, too, and he rubbed his cheek on that
decorated rough and smooth shoulder. He liked the feeling—mostly
because it was Tate’s skin.
“I’m thinking that I’m not enough,” he said after a moment. “I
can try to be—I’l die trying to be enough. I’m thinking that so many
people have let you down, you need more than just me.”
Talker | Amy Lane
87
Tate grunted a negative. “You’re all I need,” he said
confidently, but Brian thought that maybe it was the same sort of
confidence that had led him out the door with Trevor and Blaize,
without thinking that anything could possibly go wrong.
He especial y thought so when Tate said, “You’re my Prince
C harming, saving me from me.”
Brian grunted, and didn’t add, “Yeah, but not soon enough,”
because that was going to be his own burden to carry. He didn’t
say, “But what if I die?” either, even though he, of al people, knew
that losing the people you loved most was a real possibility. That
thought was morbid and it was the last
mouth was engulfing Brian’s swollen cock. Brian about came off the
bed, it was so sudden, and then Tate’s mouth tightened and he
sucked in his cheeks and bobbed his head up and down so his lips
massaged the ridge of Brian’s circumcised cockhead. His fist came
up to the base and squeezed, and within seconds, Brian was
seeing stars.
As blow jobs went, it was not the most expertly given—no
foreplay, no tasting, no licking or teasing—it was all about Tate’s
craving to have Brian’s flesh down his throat.
Brian could live with that.
It took a minute, maybe two, before Brian thrust into Tate’s
mouth hard, moaned “C oming.…” with just enough time to give
Tate some warning, and started shaking with gimme gimme gimme
gotta have it ba-bee before he groaned hard and came. His entire
body came off the bed, and he clutched Tate to his groin as he
shook and shuddered and groaned some more, curling around his
dream boy as he dumped come into his mouth.
His dream boy swallowed like it was something he’d dreamed
about too.
When the convulsions of climax had stopped, Tate pushed
himself back up to face to face, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, and grinned.
“No one’s let me do that before.”
Brian nodded. “I can see why,” he breathed, stil trembling.
“Your technique’s sort of dangerous. You suck me any harder and
you’l be choking on my eyebal s.”
Tate’s grin widened and he chortled softly, and Brian kissed
him because he had to.
Talker | Amy Lane
86
They fell asleep, practically in the middle of the kiss. Brian
woke up a little later and reached down to arrange the covers over
both of them, and while he was doing that, Tate mumbled
something about “little spoon” and rolled over on his side. Brian
took him up on it, and they fel asleep, Brian’s front to Tate’s back,
so Brian could engulf Tate in his arms and his wide shoulders and
keep his dream boy safe.
It didn’t work. Tate twitched in his sleep. Not constantly, but
occasional y. And he almost woke up twice with bad dreams. E ach
time, Brian thought about al the times no one had been there for
Talker when he’d had bad dreams, and his chest hurt.
It hurt bad enough to wake him up about half an hour before
his alarm. He laid there, snuggling into Talker’s body and peering
thoughtfully at his shoulder tattoo in the gray light coming in from
his window, and thought very carefully about what he wanted for
himself, and what he wanted for Talker.
He was slow on the uptake sometimes, but he did get shit
eventual y, when he had some quiet in his own skull to figure them
out.
“What are you thinking about?” Talker’s voice was sleepy, and
Brian kissed the skin on his shoulder with a small smile.
“How do you know I’m thinking?”
“Dunno. Just do. It’s like the silence changes.”
That made Brian smile, too, and he rubbed his cheek on that
decorated rough and smooth shoulder. He liked the feeling—mostly
because it was Tate’s skin.
“I’m thinking that I’m not enough,” he said after a moment. “I
can try to be—I’l die trying to be enough. I’m thinking that so many
people have let you down, you need more than just me.”
Talker | Amy Lane
87
Tate grunted a negative. “You’re all I need,” he said
confidently, but Brian thought that maybe it was the same sort of
confidence that had led him out the door with Trevor and Blaize,
without thinking that anything could possibly go wrong.
He especial y thought so when Tate said, “You’re my Prince
C harming, saving me from me.”
Brian grunted, and didn’t add, “Yeah, but not soon enough,”
because that was going to be his own burden to carry. He didn’t
say, “But what if I die?” either, even though he, of al people, knew
that losing the people you loved most was a real possibility. That
thought was morbid and it was the last
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