Chapter Twenty-One #2
Amani's jeans came off. Nero's came off.
They did it together, sitting up, laughing a little at the awkwardness of it, the way people laugh when something important is happening and the humor is the only way through.
Then they were on the bed in just underwear.
Amani was on top with Nero's hands on his hips.
Amani leaned down and put his mouth on Nero's throat.
Nero's pulse jumped against his lips and for the first time in five weeks, his body did something that wasn't fear.
It was slow. It was slower than Amani had ever done anything.
They didn't rush. Amani set the pace and the pace was deliberate, exploring, his mouth tracing the line of Nero's jaw, his hands learning the shape of Nero's shoulders, his hips moving against Nero's hips with a friction that built instead of spiked.
Nero let him lead. Every time Amani paused, Nero's hands loosened.
Every time Amani pressed forward, Nero met him.
It was like being in a dance where Amani set the music and Nero already knew every step.
At one point Amani stopped. Just stopped. Pressed his forehead against Nero's collarbone and breathed. The wanting was there, sharp and urgent, and underneath it was a flicker of something older, the ghost of hands on his stomach, a voice in his ear. He had to wait for it to pass.
Nero didn't move. His hand was in Amani's hair and he didn't stroke it, didn't pet, just rested it there, still, present.
"Are you okay?" Nero’s voice was rough.
"Yeah. Just a second."
"Take as long as you need."
Amani breathed. Counted. Felt the ghost move through him, past him, and out. His body was on Nero's body. The weight was his own. He was the one in control. The hand in his hair was a hand that would lift away the moment he asked. He lifted his head.
"Okay," he said. "Keep going."
They kept going. Amani rocked his hips, slow, testing. The friction through the fabric a deliberate torture.
Nero's breath caught. His hands tightened on Amani's hips and then deliberately loosened, not gripping, never gripping.
Amani reached between them, sliding his hand inside the waistband of Nero's underwear. Nero's hips lifted into his palm. His eyes closed for one second and opened again immediately, locked on Amani's face, because he had promised lights on, and lights on meant looking.
Amani kissed him, and kept his hand where it was.
Nero's breathing went ragged. His hips moved.
Amani controlled the speed, the pressure, everything.
There was no word for what he felt watching Nero come apart under his hand.
Not power, exactly. Not dominance in the scene sense.
Just the specific, private pleasure of being the one who made this man lose his composure, and knowing the composure had been held for him, for this, for however long Amani had needed to get there.
When Nero's eyes closed and his breath caught, and his hips stuttered. His hand tightened in Amani's hair for one unguarded second. Amani watched him and his own breath went shallow. Something in his chest cracked open. He could not have named it.
Dampness filled Nero’s underwear.
Nero came down slowly. His hand uncurled from Amani's hair. His eyes opened. The dark had gone soft at the edges.
"Your turn," he said.
"You don't have to—"
"Amani. I want to. Tell me what you want."
Amani told him. And when Nero's hand replaced his and Nero's mouth was on his throat, careful of the scar, careful of everything, Amani closed his eyes for the first time all morning.
Not because he was afraid. Because the lights were on.
The room was his. The hand was one he had asked for, and the face he would see when he opened his eyes would be exactly the face he wanted to see.
He came with Nero's name in his mouth and Nero's hand on him and the late morning sun still pouring through the window. When it was done, he pressed his face into Nero's neck and shook for a minute, not from fear, from the particular release of a body remembering that it was allowed to feel good.
Nero held him. Lightly. The way he held everything. Ready to let go the moment Amani needed.
"Okay?" Nero asked.
"Yeah."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. I'm—" Amani laughed. Rough, a little wet, mostly real. "I'm better than okay. I just don't have a word for it yet."
"You don't need one."
They lay there. The sun moved across the bed.
Amani's hand found Nero's hand and tangled their fingers and neither of them spoke.
Eventually Nero got up and brought a damp washcloth from the bathroom.
They cleaned up and got back into bed. Amani pulled the sheet up over both of them and settled against Nero's side with his head on Nero's shoulder.
"I have to work at eight," Amani said.
"Okay."
"I'm going to sleep until seven."
"Okay."
"You have to wake me up."
"I will."
A pause. Then, quietly, with his face against Nero's neck: "Thank you."
Nero's arm tightened around him for one second and then loosened, the pressure a whole sentence on its own.
"Go to sleep, Amani."