Chapter 15 #4
Bastian's hand rises, slowly. It settles against the side of Emery's throat, his palm warm against the pulse point, his fingers curving around to the nape.
The touch is light and reverent. He holds Emery's neck with the care of something precious rather than something vulnerable, and the sensation of being held there, at the place where he is most easily broken, without any fear of breaking, makes Emery's eyes sting.
"Here," Emery whispers. He takes Bastian's other hand and guides it beneath his shirt, presses it flat against his stomach, slides it upward, over his ribs, until the broad palm rests against his chest. Against his heart. "Here."
His hand spreads against Emery's chest and holds there, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, and his thumb traces a slow circle against the skin and the patience of it, the care of it, makes Emery's breath shudder.
"Tell me more," Bastian says, low and patient, giving them all the time in the world.
Emery guides him. His hands over Bastian's, moving them across his body, showing him the places.
The curve of his waist where he is sensitive.
The dip of his spine where pressure makes him arch.
The inside of his wrists where the skin is thin and the veins are visible and no one has ever thought to press their mouth there.
Bastian follows where he is led, each new location discovered with the focused attention of memorizing a map, committing to memory the geography of someone he intends to know completely.
"Here," Emery says, and presses Bastian's hand between his thighs, not against his cock, which is hard and straining against his trousers, but against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh where the touch makes him shiver and press closer.
"And here," Bastian says, and his hand slides higher, wrapping around Emery through the fabric, and Emery gasps and his hips jerk forward. "Tell me."
"Yes," Emery breathes. "There. Your hand. Please."
Bastian unfastens his trousers with one hand. His fingers are deft and unhurried and Emery lifts his hips to give him access and then Bastian's hand is on him, skin against skin, the hot grip of his fist closing around Emery's cock and stroking.
"Tell me how," Bastian says against his ear.
"Slow." Emery's voice is cracked. His hands are on Bastian's shoulders, gripping hard. "Slow at first. Tight. Tighter. Yes. Yes, that. Fuck."
Bastian obeys. His hand moves exactly as directed, the grip tightening when Emery says tighter, the thumb sweeping across the sensitive head on each upstroke, spreading the slick that has gathered there.
He strokes Emery in his lap with the patience of following instructions and the skill of understanding the body he is holding, and each stroke sends another bolt of pleasure through Emery's core.
"Faster," Emery says. His hips are moving, rocking into Bastian's fist, chasing the friction. "Faster, and don't. Don't stop talking."
"I will not stop." Bastian's mouth is at his ear, his breath hot. "I will not stop touching you. I will not stop wanting you. You in my lap, telling me where to put my hands. This is what I want. You, commanding me. You, taking what you need. Do you understand what you do to me?"
Emery's breath is ragged. His body is tightening, the pleasure coiling, and the words are pushing him toward the edge with the same relentless precision as the hand between his legs.
Bastian's grip shifts, his thumb sweeping across the head of Emery's cock, and the bolt of sensation drags a sound out of him that he cannot control.
"What do I do to you?" Emery asks. It comes out breathless, fractured, more need than question.
He is rocking into Bastian's fist and gripping his shoulders and he cannot think clearly enough to be strategic about this.
He is not being strategic. He is asking because he wants to know.
Because no one has ever told him what he does to them beyond the obvious, beyond the transactional, beyond the way his body serves a function and his face opens doors and his willingness to be used has kept him alive.
He wants to know what he does to Bastian that is not that.
He wants to know if there is something else.
Bastian's hand slows. Not stopping, not withdrawing, but easing into long, deliberate strokes that keep Emery at the edge without pushing him over.
His other hand comes up to Emery's jaw, turning his face, pulling him out of the shelter of Bastian's neck until they are looking at each other.
Close. Bastian's black eyes are dark and molten and his expression is stripped of every layer of composure Emery has ever seen him wear.
"You make me forget who I am," Bastian says. His voice is low and rough and the vibration beneath it presses into Emery's chest. "A story I've gotten lost in."
His hand moves on Emery's cock, slow and steady, each stroke punctuating the words.
"You make me reckless," Bastian continues. His thumb traces Emery's jaw. "You make me want things I have not wanted in centuries." His grip tightens, the stroke firming, and Emery's hips stutter forward. "You make me jealous of men who are not worth my time."
Emery is trembling. His fingers are digging into Bastian's shoulders and his cock is pulsing in Bastian's fist and he is so close, so close, balanced on the edge with the words holding him there.
"You make me so careful," Bastian says. His mouth moves from Emery's jaw to his ear. His breath is hot and his voice drops lower, into the register that Emery feels in his teeth, in his sternum, in the marrow of his bones.
His hand strokes up, tight. His thumb sweeps the head and Emery gasps and his body clenches and he is right there, right at the precipice.
Bastian's lips brush the shell of his ear. His voice drops to a whisper.
"You make me want to keep you."
Emery comes with a sob.
His body seizes, his fingers digging into Bastian's shoulders, his cock pulsing in Bastian's hand.
He spills across Bastian's fist and his own stomach and the sound that tears out of him is not a moan and not a cry, it is the wet, broken sound of something cracking open that has been sealed shut for a very long time.
He buries it in the curve of Bastian's neck, his face pressed there, his breath ragged and harsh against the warm skin, and the sob carries the weight of every room he has ever left before someone could ask him to stay, every bed he has slipped out of in the dark, every person who touched him and used him and let him go without looking back.
Bastian strokes him through it, steady and sure, his other arm locked around Emery's back, holding him together while the rest of him falls apart.
They stay there. Emery's face in Bastian's neck.
Bastian's clean hand on his back, holding him steady.
The study is quiet. The maps are still spread on the desk and the lamp is still burning and somewhere beyond this room the compound is waking up and people are beginning their days and none of it matters.
After a long time, Emery lifts his head.
Bastian's expression is warm and open and satisfied, having just been given something he values.
He cleans his hand on a cloth from the desk drawer and tucks Emery back into his trousers with the gentle practicality that characterizes all of his aftercare, and Emery lets him because the alternative is pulling away and he is not ready to pull away yet.
They stand. Emery straightens his clothes. Bastian straightens his. They do not look as though they have just done what they did in a desk chair in the middle of the morning, which is a testament to the discipline of both.
Emery goes to the door. He opens it and steps into the corridor.
He should be afraid.
He is not.