Safe Harbor (3 page)

Blake rocks his hips to grind his cock against Tom’s, and pleasure flares up his spine like a fire catching on dry tinder. He aches for this already, his cock hard and his balls heavy with it. But this isn’t some stranger he’s tumbling. He makes himself slow down, rein in his need, and ask: “Have you done this before?”

Tom shakes his head, catching his lip between his teeth nervously, so that for an instant Blake can see the boy he used to be in the man he’s become. “I mean, a few things with girls,” he says, and Blake is momentarily jealous despite how unreasonable he knows that is. Wasn’t he just comparing Tom to the other men he’s had? “But I’ve never been to bed with a man.”

That rules some things out. Blake has no oil on hand, and he’s not about to suggest using spit for Tom’s first time, no matter which of them spreads his legs. But that still leaves them plenty of ways to enjoy each other.

“Here,” Blake says as he reaches down, and Tom groans when Blake’s hand curls around his thick shaft. “God, Tom, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Sorry to, aah, make you wait,” Tom pants, and then
his
hand catches Blake’s cock, his grip firm and confident and wonderful. Blake buries his face in the hollow of Tom’s shoulder to muffle the groan of pleasure.

“All is forgiven,” Blake says, and then grins as he remembers Tom’s words earlier. “On… ah, yes… one condition.”

Tom kisses him, distracted, rough with his teeth. “One condition?”

“
Don’t stop
,” Blake says. He thrusts into Tom’s hand, rushed and needy, the smoothness of an uncallused palm strange but pleasant. He drinks in every little detail greedily, every reminder that he’s come home to Tom instead of fucking some man he scarcely knows for the sake of physical release alone. It undoes him more quickly, more thoroughly; Tom’s hand might be unpracticed on another man’s cock but it scarcely matters when he’s holding on tight and whispering Blake’s name.

In scarcely any time at all Blake is coming, spilling over Tom’s fingers and his own stomach, his eyes squeezed shut and bright golden pleasure bursting behind them. His breath catches, comes in choked sobs as Tom milks his cock until he has nothing left to give.

“Oh God,” Tom whispers. “Blake, you’re amazing. God, watching you—”

Blake rallies, licking his lips and giving Tom the best rakish smile he can muster. “You haven’t felt ‘amazing’ yet,” he says.

He pushes himself down until he’s kneeling between Tom’s thighs, the blanket falling away. Now he really can get a good look at Tom’s cock, more than the glimpse he’d caught before: thick and proud, foreskin pulled back from a rosy, well-defined head. A drop of fluid glistens at the tip, and Blake leans down to lick it up. Tom gasps, fingers clenching in the bedclothes, so Blake licks him again, more slowly.

“Blake,” Tom breathes, almost a prayer, like he can’t believe this is happening.

“I’m here,” Blake says. He licks his lips again to wet them, then takes the head of Tom’s cock in his mouth. He has to stretch his jaw wide to take it all, breathing in the salt musk of Tom’s skin. Tom shudders beneath him, thighs flexing restlessly, as though he wants to thrust and doesn’t dare.

Blake settles in to his task, sliding slightly farther down Tom’s cock with each stroke, slicking the shaft with spit so he can take it yet deeper. The firm weight of it on his tongue and the smoothness sliding past his lips make his own cock stir again, even though he hasn’t even had time to soften fully. He reaches down and strokes himself slowly, firmly, in time with the languid sucking he gives Tom. The pleasure has a rhythm to it, rolling, a cadence like the waves, but the salt of Tom’s cock is sharper, earthier than the sea, keeping Blake grounded as he coaxes soft, desperate whimpers from Tom’s throat and climbs toward his own second climax.

Tom’s thighs are trembling more fiercely now, taut with need, the tang of precome sharp on Blake’s tongue. Only a few strokes more before Tom’s back arches off the bed and his cock pulses in Blake’s mouth, come spurting thick and bitter on Blake’s tongue. Blake strokes himself frantically, so close to release, and Tom reaches down to get both hands under his arms and haul him back up.

“Let me,” Tom says, taking hold of Blake’s cock again and pulling him close. Blake ruts into Tom’s hand helplessly, shuddering with pleasure so intense he can barely stand it. Tom holds him, kisses him, strokes his cock relentlessly until the sensations overwhelm him and Blake comes a second time, falling to pieces in Tom’s arms.

His heartbeat hammers in his ears in the aftermath, and he’s too giddy and weak to move, slumped against Tom’s body heedless of the stickiness of sweat and seed between them. Tom kisses his temple and runs gentle fingers through his hair.

“So?” Blake says, relaxed and drowsy, mumbling into Tom’s throat. “Anything like what you were expecting?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Tom says. It sounds as though he’s smiling. “Better, though.”

Blake kisses his collarbone. “Merry Christmas,” he says. He gives himself another minute or so to be sure he’ll be steady on his feet, then rolls out of bed.

“Wait,” Tom says, reaching after him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m coming right back,” Blake says. His heart aches but it’s a good feeling, for once. “If  you’re not kicking me out of bed then I’m sure not leaving on my own. Just let me put out the lamps.”

Tom looks relieved—and then appreciative, his gaze slowly tracking up and down Blake’s body. There’s no way Blake is ready for another round this quickly, but that admiring look still makes his skin flush warm. “Hurry up, then,” Tom says.

Blake turns out the lamps and finds his way carefully back to bed in the dark. Tom pulls him close and there’s an awkward, tangled moment before they find a way to arrange all of their limbs comfortably. Outside there’s only silence, the falling snow a muffling blanket. The house creaks and settles around them, like and unlike the sounds of a ship at sea, but it’s the gentle rhythm of Tom’s breathing that lulls Blake to sleep.

I
T
’
S
barely dawn, gray light filtering in around the edges of the curtains, when Blake wakes up. For an instant he’s disoriented by the heat of the body next to him. He isn’t in the habit of spending the night with anyone, no matter how pleasant the tumble. Then he wakes fully and remembers: this isn’t just anyone.

He props himself up on one elbow for a better look. Tom is still asleep, his mouth soft, his cheeks pink. A stray black curl falls over his forehead. At some point he seems to have mashed his face halfway into the pillow, which doesn’t look comfortable at all but makes Blake’s heart melt with its ridiculous charm.

Tom stirs, sighing sleepily. He gropes for the blanket and then stills, brow furrowing in confusion. He blinks a few times and looks up, squinting. “Blake?”

For one instant Blake worries. What if Tom regrets last night? What if he’s angry? But then the smile breaks across Tom’s face like the sunrise, and everything is right with the world. “Morning,” Blake says. “Seems you’ve learned to sleep in at some point while I was gone. Aren’t you impatient to see what Saint Nick might have left you?”

Tom laughs. “I’ve already gotten the best present I could possibly get this year.”

“Listen to you,” Blake says, grinning. “When did you become such a sweet talker?”

“I’ve gotten good at a lot of things while you’ve been gone,” Tom says. “Maybe… maybe you’ll stick around long enough to let me show you?”

Blake nods, tugging the blanket back up over them and wrapping an arm around Tom’s waist. “I’ll stay as long as you and Alice will have me.” He pauses. “Will she be upset?”

“She’ll understand. I’m sure she will. Gran’s never cared much for what other people thought, and she’s always known you mean the world to me. I’ll make her understand, I promise. Just stay.” Tom sounds so confident, so
earnest
, that Blake decides to believe him. It’s a pleasant thought, home and family and… this. “Merry Christmas, Blake, I got you a house.”

“Merry Christmas,” Blake says, and Tom kisses him before he can finish, which is fortunate, since it lets him gather his courage. “All I have for you is my love.”

Tom hugs Blake so tightly his spine cracks in protest. He’s beaming when he pulls back to look Blake in the eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s
exactly
what I wanted.”

Come home for holiday romance.
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L
AYLAH
H
UNTER
writes primarily speculative fiction, often queer, often erotic, often concerned with power dynamics, and sometimes all of those things at once. Hunter’s mild-mannered alter ego has a day job in one of the driest and stuffiest corners of the publishing industry, a video-game habit, and two cats who consistently fail their aloofness checks. Hunter writes best on rainy days and is powered mostly by lattes, which made moving to Seattle a wise career choice.

Find Laylah at her blog: http://laylah.dreamwidth.org.