Chapter Sixteen #2
The heat from Cassian’s tongue disappeared as Cassian sat up. James’s heart stuttered from the sight—Cassian’s mouth wet from saliva, his hair even messier than before. Holy hell, he looked absolutely feral.
James said, “Please fuck me.”
“Gladly,” Cassian replied before swiping his wrist across his mouth.
He walked forward on his knees. James was about to remind Cassian of the need for lubrication and ask him to make use of his own spittle, but then Cassian held out his palm.
He raised his eyebrows once, silently requesting (or perhaps insisting) that James be the one to supply them with their lubrication.
Lifting his head, James leaned forward and spit into Cassian’s palm.
Cassian proceeded to coat his shaft with it, pumping his fist twice, and James found the scene so Goddamned arousing that he nearly climaxed on the spot.
Cassian held out his palm for a second time.
James needed a moment to create enough saliva, and then he spit into Cassian’s palm again.
Without hesitation, Cassian coated James’s hole, which was equally as arousing. James felt his face flush.
After that, Cassian wasted no time. Gripping James’s thighs, he began to shift his hips, pushing his cock inside, no fanfare or uncertainty in the slightest. James let out a whimper-moan as he tried to adjust to the feel of Cassian’s cock.
“Good God, James,” Cassian gritted out, stilling, though from his facial expression, it was obvious that he wanted thrust. “I might come soon. And I haven’t even moved yet.”
“I want you to come,” James said sweetly. “And I won’t last long myself, either. Your cock is . . . oh, fuck, it’s perfect.” Cassian’s cock wasn’t exactly large but it was perfect. Especially for this. And James wanted Cassian to know it. “It’s a perfect fit for me.”
Cassian let out a puff of air. And James wondered what was so funny.
“Ah, right, like the shoe,” Cassian said.
James raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t a clue what Cassian was talking about.
“Shoe?”
“Yes, the fucking shoe metaphor you were so fond of back in the lounge.”
“Shoe metaphor?” James wondered aloud before being struck with realization. “Oh! From when we were talking about love?”
“Yes, God, shut up and let me fuck you,” Cassian said. “I’m on the verge of spilling.”
James had to clamp his mouth shut by pressing his lips together for a couple of seconds to contain a bout of laughter. Cassian’s neediness was ridiculously charming.
“Sorry,” James said. “Fuck me. Please.”
Immediately, Cassian shifted his hips back and then thrusted forward.
James’s breath hitched as pleasure streaked through him.
He was still reeling from the sensation when Cassian thrust into him again.
James’s hands twisted the sheets as Cassian began to fuck him with abandon, slamming into him hard and fast and seemingly without concern for James’s potential pleasure or pain in the least.
It was incredible.
Sweat began to bead on Cassian’s brow, and his breathing became ragged.
Enraptured, James stared at him in wonderment.
He loved seeing Cassian like this—selfishly lost in his pleasure, claiming what was his.
In a matter of seconds, James’s cock began to throb, becoming engorged from the rush of pleasure.
James took it in his palm and began to pump his fist. Cassian soon increased the intensity of his thrusts, and his mouth fell agape as he became even more lost to his pleasure.
James moved his fist faster, enamored with the sight.
Cassian Penn Livingston was mesmerizing.
Another sudden rush of pleasure moved through him.
“Oh, God. Oh, shit,” James said as his cock began to pulse, shooting ejaculate onto his stomach. “I’m coming.”
Cassian let out a moan, too, and then his thrusting began to slow.
“Me, too.”
After a brief pause, Cassian collapsed onto him, capturing James’s mouth in a crushing kiss, and then he stayed low, resting their foreheads together, as though he needed to remain close.
James had nearly forgotten how wonderful it was to be loved like this. He wanted, needed, to thank Cassian. For wanting him. For loving him. For fucking him. For everything.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Cassian huffed a pompous-sounding half-laugh.
“You’re mine, James,” he said matter-of-factly. “And that means that from this moment forward, I will fuck you whenever I want to fuck you.”
James’s heart stuttered. How he loved that ego. Lifting his head, he caught Cassian’s mouth in another kiss. Cassian must have sensed the hunger behind it.
Chuckling, Cassian broke away and said, “Ah, that’s what you wanted to hear, hm?”
“Yes,” James said. “What you said . . . it’s exactly what I want.”
To be needed. To be wanted. To be cherished.
“I want you to fuck me whenever you want to fuck me,” he reiterated. “And I will thank you for having had the chance to please you.”
Cassian steadied himself on one of his elbows and pushed a hand through James’s hair.
“Oh, my sweet James,” he said. “I knew you would provide exceptional service.”
James’s face warmed, and his entire soul was set ablaze as Cassian crushed his lips with a possessive, bruising kiss.
***
April 14, 1912
5:18 a.m.
Early in the morning, James awoke just as the sun was only beginning to rise.
After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rolled over to face Cassian, who was still snoozing, his eyebrows pinched together as though he was concerned about something.
Gently, James smoothed a thumb over the little crease that had formed between his brows, and Cassian’s expression relaxed a little.
James spent the next little while watching him, lost in bliss.
He’d felt so numb these last few years, ever since losing George, listlessly moving through life, feeling as though he had lost the spark to create and to live—really live—and to embrace life in the same manner that he used to.
Hell, he’d often struggled to imagine a future for himself at all.
But now, lying in Cassian’s bed, having barely even had four hours of sleep, James felt positively energized, his body crackling with passion in a manner that it hadn’t in years.
His fingers itched to hold a pen, and his brain seemed to buzz with the acute urge to write.
And when looking at Cassian’s face, James couldn’t help but imagine his future—one where he and Cassian were together.
Even though James had no idea what a future for them could even look like, still the possibilities excited him.
Would Cassian travel to and from Europe every month or so, purposefully sailing with the White Star Line?
Or would Cassian insist that James find other work, maybe even in New York, so that the two of them could always be close?
Oh, God, what if Cassian even insisted that they live together somehow?
James smiled at the thought. Living with Cassian. How perfect that would be. Cassian could have him—could take him—whenever he wanted. And there wouldn’t be a day—not a single solitary day—when James wouldn’t feel treasured.
Exhaling a small, lovesick sigh, James sat up carefully in bed, hoping he wouldn’t wake Cassian.
There were still a couple more hours left before James had to work, and he wanted to use the time wisely.
First, he would somehow find Cassian some coffee, and then, he would write.
Later, once Cassian finally awoke, the man could cuddle him some more before he had to slog through the rest of his shifts.
After climbing out of bed, James searched for a robe.
He found one of Cassian’s, pressed it to his nose to inhale some of Cassian’s wonderful scent—pine, musk, and black pepper, likely from some cologne that cost more per ounce than even the cost of rent in some of the cheaper London flats—and then slipped it on.
Tying it, he walked over to the door and then poked his head outside into the hall.
He spied the cabin steward in a state of half slumber at the end of the corridor and cleared his throat loudly enough to catch the man’s attention.
The steward shook himself awake and started over.
“Apologies for troubling you, but, uhm, may I order two coffees, please? Sugar and cream on the side,” James said.
“You’ll have to call for someone else, sir. I’m only a cabin steward.”
“I’m aware. But, see, you already know about me and my . . . friend. And I was hoping that we could make it so that no one else finds out.”
The man pursed his lips for a moment. After a pause, he held out his hand, palm up.
“Alright, two coffees. I’ll fetch them for you.”
James frowned at the man’s empty hand. He wanted money.
“Just, uhm, one minute,” James said, holding up a finger.
He went into the room and found his wallet so that he could fetch some of the money he’d made the previous evening working the Smoking Room, though he couldn’t be sure how much the man expected.
Cassian had paid the fellow seven or eight American dollars the previous evening.
James would have to hope that the equivalent of two or so in mixed currency would suffice instead.
After hurrying back over to the door, James handed the man a mess of coins.
“It’s all I made last night,” James said, his brows pinching. “Please.”
The man counted it, moving the coins around in his palm with his index finger, and then nodded.
“Two coffees,” he confirmed, shoving the coins into his pocket.
Once the man left, James carefully shut the door. He exhaled a sigh as he leaned against it. He remained there for the next few minutes, waiting for the coffees while Cassian slept. Thankfully, the steward only made a small barely there knock when he returned. James took the tray from him.