Talker's Graduation

fast—and was
    sliding slippery fingers down Talker’s crease.
    Talker spread his legs and leaned forward, giving Brian better
    access. God, he had learned to love this in the past years. The first
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    time had been awkward—it had burned a little, in spite of Brian’s
    best preparation—and for a terrible, breathless moment, he’d been
    afraid. But all of that growing up he’d done, all of that learning to
    hold a still space in his head, that had paid off, because he’d been
    able to breathe, breathe, breathe through the fear and the panic,
    and he’d been able to open himself up, and look into Brian’s eyes,
    and give Brian control, just for this, over his body.
    Brian hadn’t let him down, and the burning had been…
    interesting, at first, and then pleasurable, and then exquisite.
    Now, as Tate allowed Brian’s fingers to penetrate him, to
    stretch, to spread and invade him, his hips undulated expressively
    and he all but purred.
    “God, I love this part,” he said softly, and Brian smiled up into
    his face.
    “This part, or the part that comes next?” he asked, and his
    smile was all wicked.
    Tate rose up on his knees and backed up, until he was
    hovering over Brian’s cock. Brian held himself up, and together they
    met… ah… yes! Right there! Tate breathed, breathed, breathed…
    slid down, stretched, and caught his breath. So big… so big and so
    wide and so… ah, God… ahhhhh…. “Ohhhhhhh….” He moaned
    and shuddered, and slid down and down until he was sitting on
    Brian and Brian’s flesh, his beautiful, thick, wide erection, was
    solidly wedged inside Tate’s body
    “This part,” he murmured, smiling and throwing his head back.
    He lifted his hips and Brian held him there, his own hips moving up
    and down and fucking Tate slowly, while Tate sweated and
    shuddered and groaned in response. “Stay still,” he muttered,
    because Brian wasn’t going fast enough, and he wanted fast, and
    he wanted hard, and he positioned himself with his knees under
    him and started bouncing, up and down and impaling himself, trying
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    hard to watch while Brian’s eyes closed and he began to groan. It
    was hard. Tate’s eyes closed too, and when Brian moved one of his
    hands to Tate’s cock, he had to keep them closed because God!
    Did that feel good!
    Brian stroked and Tate rose and fell and their sounds, their
    comfortable, passionate sex sounds, fell in the room like the
    unfiltered light from the window. Inside Tate, everything was hard
    and bright and perfect, so perfect, so perfect his body would
    shatter, would fly apart, would disintegrate, and he wanted it,
    wanted it, strove for climax, straining, grunting, and then, when
    Brian grabbed Tate’s hand and put it on his cock so he could grab
    Tate’s hips and start pistoning into him hard and fast and so so
    good, that‟s when the world exploded behind his eyes.
    He cried out, and Brian heaved and grunted, spilling himself
    inside. Tate felt it, would feel it for the next hour, running down his
    thighs, making a sloppy mess of his backside—he loved it. Feeling
    it there was like his own little closet-porn movie of the two of them
    making love.
    He opened his eyes after a moment, feeling Brian softening
    inside him but not wanting to move yet. Brian was idly running his
    fingers through the come spatters on his stomach, and Tate
    grabbed his T-shirt from where it had fallen next to them in order to
    wipe him off.
    “Killjoy,” Brian said softly, and Tate grinned.
    “Come-junkie.”
    “Well yeah!”
    Tate laughed and rolled to the side, using his T-shirt to clean
    Brian up some more before pitching the shirt into the hamper.
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    He rested his head on the shoulder with the scars on it,
    because now it was strong enough to take the weight, and dropped
    a reverent kiss on bare, scarred skin.
    “Do we still have time?” he asked anxiously, and Brian didn’t
    even need to look at the bedside clock.
    “The show isn’t until this evening, Talker. We could spend all
    morning and still have time to open the gallery.”
    “Yeah, but you have responsibilities.” Tate sobered. “I know
    you do—I don’t want to get in your way.”
    Brian stroked the bare side of his scalp. Tate’s hair hung long
    on his other side, but he’d had to keep his tattoos shaved—three
    years hadn’t changed the fact that the hair didn’t