Harder

Harder

They only had a few hurried moments to taste one another's mouths before they had to get back to work. The closet was dark, and dust danced through the outline of the door, its edges highlighted by the room beyond. There was no time for conversation. Paul dragged Michael into his arms, realizing how suddenly he felt weak. His eyes scanned his lover's in the dim light. All he could see were twin stars glinting back at him. Michael hated these rushed, furtive moments. He preferred to luxuriate in Paul's caresses. But there was little time for that these days. He sensed Paul hesitate, so leaned up and captured his dark-haired beloved's rose petal lips with his own. Paul melted against Michael with a sigh. He didn't know how Michael knew when to touch him, but Paul was so grateful he took the lead. Even though he stood a good six inches taller and 3 inches more broad in the shoulder, Paul was so much more anxious. Michael just acted. It was he who took Paul's hand that night, confessed his feelings, come what may. Paul had known he loved Michael for so long but had never found his voice. The memory of that day, nearly a year ago, flooded Paul with such affection. He held Michael closer, kissing him with growing ardor. The fingers of one hand splayed against Michael's back while the others cupped the back of his head, tangling in Michael's fair curls, pulling gently. Michael was not going to complain about whatever was making Paul so amorous right now. He’d never kissed Michael so heatedly here at work. Normally Paul kept his affections temperate and chaste. This was...new. Exquisite. Pulling away from Paul's mouth, Michael sighed, "Harder, love." Blood flooded Paul's cheeks. He hadn't realised how far he’d gotten carried away. He didn't want to stop. "H-harder?" He stammered. Michael pressed up against him, the smaller man's arousal undeniable. "Please." Paul wound his fist slowly and carefully into Michael's hair, then gave an experimental tug. His beloved gasped and trembled against him. He ran his tongue around Michael's open lips, then sealed them with his own, kissing deeply, holding his lover. Every now and then he’d pull Michael's hair. He knew he was on the right track when Michael moaned, low and long, eyes half closed and sweeping languidly, eyelashes fluttering. "You are the most beautiful thing." Paul whispered as he pulled away to admire his panting, whimpering lover. Michael slid from his grasp with a feral growl, hitting his knees, scrabbling at Paul's waistband and belt. "Oh love!" Paul gasped, before Michael took what he desired, in turn.

the world sleeps moon-soaked and I lie awake and ache for you

I loved her in the way that only comes with youth: irresponsibly, naïvely, selfishly, wholly and joyously, and I didn't even realise it was love.

I called her my friend, my very best friend. I told her if I were a man I'd take her away from everything that troubled her. I wanted to protect her and keep her safe.

In my ignorance, I hurt her, drove her away, because she already had the language to know how she felt, but surely if I were queer, someone would have told me.

It was the loneliest closet, for I didn't know I was in it, alone.

Sonnet 3

Fevered flesh burns beneath taut fingertips

Each stroke and pull awakens more desire

Memories melt like honey on my lips

Each fresh remembrance setting me afire.

I'll replay ev’rything I've memorized

Your name synonymous with need and ache

Undeniably I am tantalized

From daydreams of you let me never wake

I'll build a bridge out of my arching spine

Fill up my sails with ev’ry gasping breath

Out of my quaking ribcage build a shrine

I'll sigh your name with every little death

I will soon collapse into your embrace

But until then will dream of your sweet face

Caress

The duo curled against one another languidly, fingers exploring, voices soft with delight. They chuckled together, jokes punctuated by kisses that promised more and more still. Fingers entwined then loosed to dance over naked flesh. She looped a leg over his and the pair mock-wrestled, until his questing fingers settled over her knee and she gasped sharply. "Does that hurt?" "No...it...I..." Waves of delicious chills rippled out from the delicate strokes over the joint, rendering her mostly mute, jaw slack. Her eyes glazed and she trembled violently. He'd seen her aroused but never like this. His curiosity piqued, he alternated his touches: firm, feather light, raking stripes with his nails, trailing teasing patterns. He tried the entirety of her knee, each progressive touch merely causing her to press closer and closer against him, body shuddering reflexively, skin taut with gooseflesh, her mouth against his chest to mute the song he was creating, playing her skin like that, quieting the soft coos, delicate squeals, lovely whimpers, gasping pants. His free arm curled around her shoulders, pulling her in, creating a safe cocoon. Satisfied with the knowledge gained, his fingers slipped lower along her calf and she buried a howl against his skin as a wave of fresh sensations rolled up her spine. His eyes lit up and he explored this fresh territory as her fingers scrabbled against his back. Tilting her head back, she reached up and pulled his lips to hers, taking long draughts of kisses, pulling back to catch her breath with shallow, panting breaths she cut with whispered pleadings that he not stop. He indulged her, stroking, tickling, raking, teasing, probing, watching her swooning, frenzied arousal with delight. He was so pleased at having found something that gave her such obvious, tremendous pleasure. He could have stayed like that...to be cliché, perhaps forever, until "Oh..." she gasped. "That's too much." "I'm so sorry!" He apologised, ceasing the onslaught on her leg and knee. She took a few moments to catch her breath and then chuckled, "No...it just changed to too much. Oh! Wow. That was lovely. Thank you." He blushed crimson, "Thank /me/? You... were... that was...how come you didn't tell me about that?" Snuggling against him, she shrugged, "Most people don't want to make out with knees." She glanced up, then smiled contentedly and squished against him even more firmly. "I want to know /everything/." "You should see what I do when you /lick/ the backs of my knees." He dove for the end of the bed, eagerly.

He guided her back to the vanity and took a tissue to her mussed face, his movements deliberate and gentle. She wasn't surprised; some part of her expected it, knew from how he spun her out and drew her back on the dance floor that there could be an undercurrent of tenderness. She took his hand in hers, turning the palm up, and placed it to her lips, kissing his skin.

He smiled faintly, tossing the tissue away, stroking her hair with his free hand. "An apology? Unusual. I accept."

"It wasn't..." she started to protest, before casting her eyes upwards, glancing into his. She was thunderstruck.

"You're a demon." She whispered.

"Nothing so common." He scoffed, waving a hand, before taking her elbow. "Come, my brat."

"Yes." She said, mouth dry. He’d never used a single power on her.

He led her through the kitchens. She was rich; she exited this way constantly. Her limo was parked out back, anyhow.

The driver raised a single brow, which lowered under His gaze. She just shrugged. "Take us home." The driver seemed about to argue, when she gave him a look, "Home, Rhys. It's not a debate." He stiffened and opened the door for the couple, shutting it politely once they were within, and pulling away from the curb moments later.

In the back, he pulled her to his side. She resisted for a fraction of a second and he shot her a warning look. Interpreting it immediately, she nestled against him, shivering. He could sense her blood pounding through her veins, roaring in her ears.

"Are you frightened, brat?" He leaned down and breathed against her ear, before allowing his tongue to trace the outline.

She whimpered softly, hands clasping the hand of the arm he had around her shoulders, before she found her rebellion, and whispered, "I have a name."

"Eulalia Chara Kazantzakis. Yes. Heir to the fortune. The only remaining heir. Your brother lost his life in a duel, your parents in a car crash. You're alone in the world. You go by Lollie. I'm going to call you Brat...in private. But among others, Eulalia. Your name is beautiful."

Her eyes fluttered closed. "Yes."

He nuzzled against her hair, lips pressed to her ear, murmuring, "Or shall I call you Eulalia in private, when you've behaved?"

Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and she nodded, trembling.

"Yes." He breathed. "You'd like me to acknowledge you more as just my brat. More than just..." He paused, and smiled, growling the word, "Mine."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, pressing her knees together. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Her fingernails bit into his flesh, she was holding his hand so tightly.

"When was the last time you ever felt this exhilarated, Eulalia?" He asked softly, shaking her hands from his, then drawing his hand in, to her throat, stroking the flesh there. Her hands descended to her knees, clenched into fists.

"Well?" He queried. Her response was a full body shudder, and he deliberately, slowly, grasped her windpipe. "That's not an answer, brat." He drew her chin back, tipping her head so he could look down into her eyes.

"When?"

She shook her head, eyes opening, clear, feckless. "Never."