Page 11 of Deathless
"Yeah," I said into his hair. "I know. Come here." I sat down next to him on the bed.
He started climbing into my lap, then hesitated, that brain of his trying to catch up with what his body already knew it wanted.
I pulled him up by the belt loops. "Get up here. Now."
He groaned into my neck and ground down against my thigh. He was hard and God, I’d missed this, missed him, missed getting to touch him.
I buried my face in his shoulder and just breathed him in. I gripped his hips hard enough to bruise and couldn't make myself let go.
"Diego?" He pulled back. "Hey. You okay?"
I shook my head against his shoulder. I was not okay. I was the opposite of okay. I was holding onto this man like the floor was gone and he was the only solid thing left. All the smooth, competent shit I'd been telling myself I'd do when I got my hands on him had burned up. All I had was my face in his shoulder, my hands locked on his hips, and a pressure in my chest that wouldn't let up.
"I thought you were dead, Jasper."
He went still. Then he put his hand on the back of my head and held me there.
We stayed like that. Him in my lap, my face in his neck, his hand in my hair. I breathed him in: smoke and cold air and sweat, and underneath all of it, skin. I pressed my mouth to his throat, right next to the bandage, right where the pulse ran under the surface, and I stayed there with my lips against that beat. “I thought you were dead, and I’d left you. Don’t ever make me leave you like that again. Never. I can’t…”
Something caught in his throat, quiet and broken, and he tightened his grip in my hair.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here."
Those were supposed to be my words. I was supposed to be the one holding him together. Instead, I was falling apart in his lap with my mouth on his pulse while he comforted me. I couldn't even be embarrassed. The relief was so enormous that it had flattened everything else.
I pulled back. His face was close, his eyes wide and searching mine. I looked wrecked. I knew it. It was all over my face, and I didn't have the energy to fix it.
"Okay," I said. My voice sounded scraped raw. "Okay. I'm done falling apart now."
"You sure?"
"No." I cupped his face with both hands. "But I need to put my mouth on you more than I need to keep falling apart, so this is me making a tactical decision."
He blinked hard. “I…what?”
“Your dick, guapo. If you don’t let me suck you off right here and now, I’m going to lose my damn mind. That clear enough for you?”
Instead of answering, he leaned forward and kissed me, and I kissed him back the way I'd been wanting to for months. He opened for me immediately, and I tasted smoke, weed, the coffee he must've had hours ago, and underneath all of it just him. I kissed him like I was trying to climb inside.
He kissed me back, and it wasn't careful. He bit my lower lip and pulled, and the sound I made was embarrassing, and I did not care even a little.
I pulled back. He tried to follow, but I held him in place with my hand on his neck.
"Strip," I said. "Everything off. Now."
He blinked at me like he was trying to process the command through the haze.
"You heard me. Get those clothes off, or I'll do it for you, and I won't be gentle about it."
He stood and started pulling at his clothes, jeans first, awkward, hopping on one foot, then his shirt. I took in every second of it. The reveal of pale skin, the scars I'd wondered about, the lean muscle, the way his cock stood hard and flushed against his stomach.
Mierda. He was beautiful. And he was letting me see him like this, this man who armored up just to walk into a kitchen, standing naked in a shitty hotel room because I'd told him to.
"On the bed. On your back."
He climbed onto the bed, lay back, and looked up at me. I'd spent two months trying not to drown in those eyes, and now he was naked on a hotel bed giving me every single thing I'd been too chickenshit to ask for.
I stood and stripped off my own clothes. He ran his gaze down my body, caught on my cock, and swallowed hard.
