CHAPTER 12 SHAWN—THANK YOU
They've been talking since the yard. Hours of it, longer than they've talked at any single stretch since Shawn moved in, Jorge's back against the wall and Shawn cross-legged at the foot of the bottom bunk, both of them still running on whatever the afternoon left behind.
The guard finishes his midnight round at eleven forty, flashlight sweep and gone. Footsteps fade down the tier.
Shawn stretches, glances up at the top bunk like it's suddenly a long way away. "Guess I better get up there."
"Yeah." Jorge doesn't move to make room. "We ain't that kind of cellies."
Shawn goes still.
Doesn't laugh at it, which is apparently not the response Jorge's face was braced for.
"What if we were?" Shawn says.
The air in the cell changes shape.
Jorge's jaw sets, something dangerous and unreadable moving behind his eyes. "Then you'd get fucked."
Shawn doesn't answer with words. Crosses the space between them and kisses him, hard, no hesitation in it, like he's been waiting weeks for somebody to finally say the true thing out loud instead of dancing around it with car magazines and half-answers.
Jorge kisses back like he's been rationing himself and just ran out of reasons to keep doing it. Hand fists in the front of Shawn's shirt, hauls him in closer, and for a second neither of them is thinking about anything except how long they've both been pretending this wasn't coming.
Jorge breaks it first, breathing hard, forehead against Shawn's. "Guard's not due for an hour. Shift change tonight, not the usual thirty."
"Then don't waste it talking."
Jorge hauls him down onto the bunk, weight settling over him, and this time neither of them holds back describing it to themselves.
Gets Shawn's shirt off, works his jeans and briefs down in one motion, and Shawn's cock is already hard against his stomach by the time Jorge's hand wraps around it, no hesitation, thumb dragging over the head until Shawn's hips buck up into the grip.
"Quiet," Jorge murmurs, mouth finding the shell of his ear. "However good this feels."
"Can't promise that."
"Then I'll make you."
Jorge strips out of his own shirt, jeans shoved down just far enough, and Shawn gets an eyeful of him fully hard before Jorge's back on him, mouth trailing down Shawn's chest, over his stomach, until his lips close around the head of Shawn's cock and Shawn's fist goes straight into the sheets.
"Fuck—Jorge—"
Jorge takes him deeper, unhurried about it despite the clock, tongue working the underside until Shawn's shaking, until he's fisting Jorge's hair and trying not to make a sound loud enough to carry through concrete.
Jorge pulls off before Shawn's anywhere near finished, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and flips him over onto his stomach without asking permission.
"Turn over." Already done, already ordered. "Good."
Shawn feels Jorge's hands part him, feels the blunt press of a finger, slick with what little Jorge's got to work with, spit and patience doing the job lube usually would.
He works him open slow, one finger and then two, curling until Shawn's biting into the pillow to keep from crying out, hips rocking back into it shameless, wordless, begging with his whole body when his mouth won't cooperate.
"Ask me right," Jorge says, voice wrecked with restraint.
"Please." Barely a breath, muffled into the pillow. "Please, fuck me, Jorge."
Jorge doesn't make him ask twice. Lines himself up, blunt head pressing against Shawn's entrance, and pushes in slow, inch by inch, one hand fisted in Shawn's hair and the other braced against the wall for leverage.
Shawn's mouth falls open around a silent groan, full and stretched and exactly what he asked for, and Jorge doesn't move for a second, buried to the hilt, breathing like it costs him everything not to slam into him right then.
"Move," Shawn breathes.
Jorge does. Slow at first, deliberate, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with a control that has Shawn shaking underneath him, cock trapped against the thin mattress with nothing to do but take it.
Shawn's the one who breaks the rhythm first, pushing back to meet him, and Jorge's control slips half a degree, thrusts picking up into something harder, faster, skin slapping skin as quiet as two men can manage it.
"Christ, Shawn, you feel—"
"Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
He doesn't. Reaches around to fist Shawn's cock in time with every thrust, and Shawn comes apart first, spilling hot over Jorge's fist and the sheets both, silent scream swallowed by the pillow, body clenching tight enough around Jorge that it drags him over the edge a few thrusts later, hips stuttering, forehead dropping to the back of Shawn's neck, groaning low against his skin as he empties into him, control finally, fully gone.
They lie tangled after, both of them catching their breath, Jorge's arm heavy across Shawn's chest.
"How much time we got left," Shawn asks, voice wrecked.
Jorge doesn't answer right away. When he checks, his voice has an edge to it that wasn't there a minute ago. "Less than I thought."
Down the tier, a door clangs. Early. Too early.
Jorge's up and moving before Shawn's even processed the sound, yanking clothes on in the dark, and whatever just happened between them, there's no time left to decide what it means before the flashlight beam hits their bars.