Coda Books 06 - Fear, Hope, and Bread Pudding (MM)

with him. Not with words, at any rate. But I kept my hands moving. Not quite stroking. Something lighter. Urging. Caressing, until he was fully erect and moaning breathlessly. I fingered his nipples and petted his stomach. I let my fingers play over every inch of his hairless groin until he finally began to relax.
    I nudged him onto his stomach and lay on top of him. I kissed him—the back of his neck and his shoulder blades. I massaged the tight muscles of his shoulders and lower back as I made my way down, kissing each knob of his spine, lingering at the gentle curve at the small of his back. I circled his hips, whispering quiet, loving words against his skin.
    Slowly, I began to feel him let go.
    I turned him over, and this time I worked my way up. I kissed the smooth, shaven skin of his groin. I nuzzled the silky warmth of his stomach and kneaded his hips. I devoured his neck, skirted his jaw, dropped kisses on his cheeks until he put his arms around my neck. “Jonathan,” he whispered and pulled me down into a kiss.
    Even now, this often felt like our most intimate act. Even when my fingers or my cock were buried in his body, it was being allowed to tease my tongue over his beautiful, full lips that made me quake with desire. It was feeling those lips part beneath mine, knowing he was inviting me in, even if only for the smallest of tastes, that made me ache.
    I kissed him gently. I could still sense his shame and his grief. His anger at himself and at his helplessness. It was less profound now, yet still there, just below the surface. I didn’t want to soothe it. I wanted to rouse it. I wanted to coax it out of him, like poison from a wound, to give him a way to vent it, held here safe in my arms.
    “I love you so much, Jon.”
    “I love you, too.”
    He was close now—not necessarily to his climax, but to that place where he’d finally allow himself to let go and truly enjoy what we were doing. Not simply going through the motions, but actually needing the deliverance I was offering. I began moving back down. Kissing him, pushing and pressing against his barriers until I was at his groin, smelling the sweet, erotic musk of his sex. I slid my hands underneath him to grip his cheeks. I put my lips against his frenulum, feeling moisture, breathing salt. I stayed there, nipping and teasing. I waited until he was moving with me, moaning softly. Until he threaded his slender fingers into my hair and pushed.
    And finally, I allowed him in. I let him thrust deep into my throat.
    His restraint was gone. His cry of pleasure was throaty and gratifying. I pushed my own erection against the silk sheets, longing for the first time for regular old cotton. For something that would grant me some real friction. He held my head and thrust into my mouth again and again, his cries growing louder, his movements faster and more urgent. This was what I’d wanted—this sudden liberation of all the energy he’d stored up—and I began to slide my right hand down the bed, underneath myself, to grant myself the same kind of release.
    He suddenly stopped thrusting. He didn’t exactly let go of me, but he grasped at me, pulling at my arms and the bed. It was as if he was trying to climb me, but from the bottom. “Turn around!” he breathed impatiently.
    It wasn’t something we did often, but I readily obeyed, rotating to present my groin to him as I swallowed his length again. His fingers dug into the backs of my thighs. It was all I could do not to thrust too fast and too hard into his mouth when I felt the warmth of his lips on my aching cock. After that, I was lost in the taste and the smell of him. The softness of his skin. The low cadence of his moans. The feeling of his slim body in my arms. The way he moved against my lips, and against my tongue. The salty tang of his pre-cum in the back of my throat. And through it all, the almost overwhelming pleasure of him sucking me as if it were the only thing in the world he wanted to do. I wanted to draw the rage and the helplessness from him, and he was just as anxious to replace it with whatever he could draw from me—strength, or patience. Love, or comfort. Maybe something else entirely. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I’d broken through his walls and been allowed in. We were one again, sharing every breath. Every sigh. Every moan.
    “See?” I said when it was over. “Don’t you feel better?”
    He moved to put his head on my shoulder. He lay heavy and