not quite done, but have a preview of Part Three
From near the beginning. There's quite a bit more, of course, but I'll try to have the whole thing done tomorrow afternoon, perhaps...
“How many do you think?”
“How many what—oh. Oh.” James breathed in, against the sheets, a little shiver of anticipation. “I…don’t know. Ten? More? What do you want?”
“We can start with ten. And I want you to count for me. Each one. Can you do that?”
“Yes…” James was still breathing quickly, but the sound wasn’t hesitant at all. More like eagerness. Expectation. Desire.
James stayed in place, waiting for him, stretched out beautifully naked over the bed, and Michael abruptly found himself very aware that he was still very clothed, standing there, and the contrast left him breathless and awestruck, at that level of trust, at James, so willing to be vulnerable for him, letting him be in charge, completely.
He didn’t know how to say any of that, not out loud, but James was still waiting for him, and he did know how hard it was for James to be patient. So he brought his hand down against the offered curve of skin, and watched the first flush of pinkness appear in its wake.
James whispered, “One,” and Michael suddenly wondered how the hell they were going to make it to ten, because James counting for him, each time, in that voice, might actually drive him insane with want well before then.
The second one evened out the pinkness on both sides, and when James said “Two” his voice actually sounded a little more steady, almost calm, as if he were growing used to the rhythm, so Michael made the next two a little harder, a little faster, not quite giving him time to recover in between. Calm was not, precisely, the goal, after all.
“Four…” That one was definitely more shaky, and Michael paused to run a hand along his back, and said, softly, “Still good?” and got a nod in return, against the sheets. When he leaned over to look into wide eyes, James gasped, and he realized that, with the change in position, the worn denim of his jeans had brushed roughly against newly-hot skin. He was still dressed, he remembered all over again. Somehow that made things different, in some indefinable way.
“Sorry. Did that hurt?”
“No…you’re fine.” James tried to blink clinging hair out of his eyes and failed, and Michael reached out and did it for him. James smiled, at that. “Were we up to five?”
“Yes.” Five. And then six. Again a little harder, because James didn’t seem to mind. His hand tingled with it, with the sensation of warmth, of softness, of James being his.
James kept counting, softly, and all those glorious freckles could barely be seen, now, swallowed up by visible heat, by the lingering presence of Michael’s handprints on his skin, artifacts like treasures of scattered ruby and gold, and Michael wanted to tell him how perfect he was, how lovely, how much Michael really didn’t give a damn about the cigarettes because, yes, they were bad for him and he knew it but they were only an excuse anyway, because he hadn’t been able to say out loud how much he’d been wanting to do this again.
James breathed “Eight” without looking up, that familiar accent gone ragged around the edges like torn silk, threaded with gold and twisted up into knots, and Michael paused to look at him and realized that his hips were still shivering, making small thrusts against the bed, cock pressing into the welcome of the sheets as if James couldn’t help the movements any longer.
He said, softly, “Impatient, are you?” and James stopped moving, with Michael’s hand still resting in place, adding weight to the burning warmth. “I—”
“I think you get two more, for that. Twelve.” He wrapped hands around slim hips and tugged, moving James away from the bed, keeping relief just out of reach, and James groaned. “Now you’re just being mean.”
“Patience is a virtue, you know.”
James muttered something unflattering about the state of Michael’s relationship with virtue, and Michael tried not to laugh, not entirely successfully. “Did I say you could insult me?”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“Ah.” They were doing that, then. Okay. He could handle that. “Are you asking me to do this harder? Because I can.”
“Can, or will? Two different verbs.”
“Not the time for vocabulary lessons, James.” And he’d practically been challenged to make James feel the next ones, hadn’t he? So he did. James gasped at the first impact, and then audibly stopped breathing entirely, momentarily, at the second.
Michael held his breath, too—had that been too much, too fast?—but just as he opened his mouth to ask the question, he heard James say, quietly, “Nine. And ten.”
“You’re amazing.”
Which earned him a sideways look, under all the hair, from amused blue eyes. “You have very low standards for amazement, don’t you?”
“No. I have you. I’m pretty certain nothing else compares.” Or ever would, again. He watched James collect air again, a little shakily, and made a mental note about comparative strength and spankings and how hard he would allow himself to do this, in the future. And James had said he wanted more talking in bed, too, right? They could talk for a minute before doing anything else.
Besides, he’d had an idea, earlier that day, while watching James run around in fluffy parkas, gleefully bouncing into all the snow; in between filming their actual scenes, his own efforts to make sure that James was never allowed to be cold ever, and the epic snowball fight they’d ended up starting with Kevin and January and the fellow members of the Hellfire Club—which they had, of course, won, mostly because James was worrisomely devious in the area of snow-related warfare—he’d been imagining himself removing all those woolly layers later, and had started wondering about what else those concealing outfits might be useful for.
He leaned over to find blue eyes again, beneath the tumble of hair, and put his hand on the bed, fingers brushing against James’s, where they were clinging to the sheets. “So I was thinking…”
James eyed him, and the suddenly quiescent hand, quizzically. “We’re not stopping, are we? I was counting very accurately, you know, and you did say two more.”
“I know you were. Just giving you a short break.”
“Oh…thank you. Though you don’t have to. I’m fine, really. Thinking about what?”
“Well…you said you own a…you could…you know your vibrator?”
“Unless this is a very bizarre trick question, the only possible answer to that question is yes.”
“You,” Michael said, and actually laughed, out loud, at that. Because James would always, always surprise him. Because he’d never get tired of being surprised. Because doing this, with James, was so much damned fun.
He saw James smile, too, and the laughter floated in under his skin and wrapped itself around his heart, golden effervescence like the bubbles of champagne, running outward through his veins, everywhere, filling him—no, them, he knew that for a fact, could see the shared joy in the bright line of that smile—up with light.
And he didn’t have words for all of that, so he brought his hand down in that same still-offered place one more time, the heat of it like a promise, a silent and tangible agreement between the two of them, leaving his fingers hyper-aware of every encounter of skin on skin. He watched those hips lift with the impact, in greeting, in invitation.
He just possibly might be the luckiest person in the world, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, to be given this, but he knew with unshakable certainty that he’d be willing to spend every single day and every matching night, too, trying to make James feel all of that happiness as well, if James would let him have the chance.
“Mmm. Eleven. So was there more to that thought, or were you just picturing me enjoying myself? Because if you wanted me to demonstrate—”
“Yes. Very much yes. But actually…I was thinking I’d like you to wear it. All day. Without anyone knowing. On the set. While we’re filming. For me.”
James had already opened his mouth to reply, but no words emerged.
“You did ask.” He tried not to sound too satisfied at that.
“How many do you think?”
“How many what—oh. Oh.” James breathed in, against the sheets, a little shiver of anticipation. “I…don’t know. Ten? More? What do you want?”
“We can start with ten. And I want you to count for me. Each one. Can you do that?”
“Yes…” James was still breathing quickly, but the sound wasn’t hesitant at all. More like eagerness. Expectation. Desire.
James stayed in place, waiting for him, stretched out beautifully naked over the bed, and Michael abruptly found himself very aware that he was still very clothed, standing there, and the contrast left him breathless and awestruck, at that level of trust, at James, so willing to be vulnerable for him, letting him be in charge, completely.
He didn’t know how to say any of that, not out loud, but James was still waiting for him, and he did know how hard it was for James to be patient. So he brought his hand down against the offered curve of skin, and watched the first flush of pinkness appear in its wake.
James whispered, “One,” and Michael suddenly wondered how the hell they were going to make it to ten, because James counting for him, each time, in that voice, might actually drive him insane with want well before then.
The second one evened out the pinkness on both sides, and when James said “Two” his voice actually sounded a little more steady, almost calm, as if he were growing used to the rhythm, so Michael made the next two a little harder, a little faster, not quite giving him time to recover in between. Calm was not, precisely, the goal, after all.
“Four…” That one was definitely more shaky, and Michael paused to run a hand along his back, and said, softly, “Still good?” and got a nod in return, against the sheets. When he leaned over to look into wide eyes, James gasped, and he realized that, with the change in position, the worn denim of his jeans had brushed roughly against newly-hot skin. He was still dressed, he remembered all over again. Somehow that made things different, in some indefinable way.
“Sorry. Did that hurt?”
“No…you’re fine.” James tried to blink clinging hair out of his eyes and failed, and Michael reached out and did it for him. James smiled, at that. “Were we up to five?”
“Yes.” Five. And then six. Again a little harder, because James didn’t seem to mind. His hand tingled with it, with the sensation of warmth, of softness, of James being his.
James kept counting, softly, and all those glorious freckles could barely be seen, now, swallowed up by visible heat, by the lingering presence of Michael’s handprints on his skin, artifacts like treasures of scattered ruby and gold, and Michael wanted to tell him how perfect he was, how lovely, how much Michael really didn’t give a damn about the cigarettes because, yes, they were bad for him and he knew it but they were only an excuse anyway, because he hadn’t been able to say out loud how much he’d been wanting to do this again.
James breathed “Eight” without looking up, that familiar accent gone ragged around the edges like torn silk, threaded with gold and twisted up into knots, and Michael paused to look at him and realized that his hips were still shivering, making small thrusts against the bed, cock pressing into the welcome of the sheets as if James couldn’t help the movements any longer.
He said, softly, “Impatient, are you?” and James stopped moving, with Michael’s hand still resting in place, adding weight to the burning warmth. “I—”
“I think you get two more, for that. Twelve.” He wrapped hands around slim hips and tugged, moving James away from the bed, keeping relief just out of reach, and James groaned. “Now you’re just being mean.”
“Patience is a virtue, you know.”
James muttered something unflattering about the state of Michael’s relationship with virtue, and Michael tried not to laugh, not entirely successfully. “Did I say you could insult me?”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“Ah.” They were doing that, then. Okay. He could handle that. “Are you asking me to do this harder? Because I can.”
“Can, or will? Two different verbs.”
“Not the time for vocabulary lessons, James.” And he’d practically been challenged to make James feel the next ones, hadn’t he? So he did. James gasped at the first impact, and then audibly stopped breathing entirely, momentarily, at the second.
Michael held his breath, too—had that been too much, too fast?—but just as he opened his mouth to ask the question, he heard James say, quietly, “Nine. And ten.”
“You’re amazing.”
Which earned him a sideways look, under all the hair, from amused blue eyes. “You have very low standards for amazement, don’t you?”
“No. I have you. I’m pretty certain nothing else compares.” Or ever would, again. He watched James collect air again, a little shakily, and made a mental note about comparative strength and spankings and how hard he would allow himself to do this, in the future. And James had said he wanted more talking in bed, too, right? They could talk for a minute before doing anything else.
Besides, he’d had an idea, earlier that day, while watching James run around in fluffy parkas, gleefully bouncing into all the snow; in between filming their actual scenes, his own efforts to make sure that James was never allowed to be cold ever, and the epic snowball fight they’d ended up starting with Kevin and January and the fellow members of the Hellfire Club—which they had, of course, won, mostly because James was worrisomely devious in the area of snow-related warfare—he’d been imagining himself removing all those woolly layers later, and had started wondering about what else those concealing outfits might be useful for.
He leaned over to find blue eyes again, beneath the tumble of hair, and put his hand on the bed, fingers brushing against James’s, where they were clinging to the sheets. “So I was thinking…”
James eyed him, and the suddenly quiescent hand, quizzically. “We’re not stopping, are we? I was counting very accurately, you know, and you did say two more.”
“I know you were. Just giving you a short break.”
“Oh…thank you. Though you don’t have to. I’m fine, really. Thinking about what?”
“Well…you said you own a…you could…you know your vibrator?”
“Unless this is a very bizarre trick question, the only possible answer to that question is yes.”
“You,” Michael said, and actually laughed, out loud, at that. Because James would always, always surprise him. Because he’d never get tired of being surprised. Because doing this, with James, was so much damned fun.
He saw James smile, too, and the laughter floated in under his skin and wrapped itself around his heart, golden effervescence like the bubbles of champagne, running outward through his veins, everywhere, filling him—no, them, he knew that for a fact, could see the shared joy in the bright line of that smile—up with light.
And he didn’t have words for all of that, so he brought his hand down in that same still-offered place one more time, the heat of it like a promise, a silent and tangible agreement between the two of them, leaving his fingers hyper-aware of every encounter of skin on skin. He watched those hips lift with the impact, in greeting, in invitation.
He just possibly might be the luckiest person in the world, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, to be given this, but he knew with unshakable certainty that he’d be willing to spend every single day and every matching night, too, trying to make James feel all of that happiness as well, if James would let him have the chance.
“Mmm. Eleven. So was there more to that thought, or were you just picturing me enjoying myself? Because if you wanted me to demonstrate—”
“Yes. Very much yes. But actually…I was thinking I’d like you to wear it. All day. Without anyone knowing. On the set. While we’re filming. For me.”
James had already opened his mouth to reply, but no words emerged.
“You did ask.” He tried not to sound too satisfied at that.