Read Online Talker's Redemption by Amy Lane - Free Book Online
Authors: Amy Lane
Tags: M/M Contemporary, Source: Amazon
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throbbed against Brian’s palm. “Didn’t make me feel any of the things I feel when you touch me or smile or… you know, sing in the shower or leave your shoes in the hallway or have conversations with the rat when you think I can’t hear you.”
“Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss… you know, fucking something?”
Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just because it’s not… not… orificial sex doesn’t make it, you know, unofficial sex, right?”
Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from his chest through his stomach to his balls. “ Orificial sex?” he howled when he could find breath. “ Orificial sex? Oh. My. God! Is that like a word you just made up or something?”
Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.
And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute. They had managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half sigh, and Tate suddenly needed… oh, God, he needed.
He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark, ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed and off.
Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.
“Hold still!” he laughed, continuing his kissing exploration in its original direction. Brian’s asscheeks were tight, and when he sucked in his stomach, they dimpled. Tate wanted to play with them. He could see Brian’s testicles—getting hard and heavy—drooping in the center of that magic, mysterious triangle, and covered in blond fur, and he wanted to play with them from this new angle too. This was fun—this is what Brian had introduced him to, in their bed. Fun and exploration and pleasure and dizzying, giddifying joy.
Brian made things easy. He pulled up his knees practically under his chest and pushed his shoulders down against the bed… then he started fumbling in their dresser drawer.
“What are you doing?” Tate asked in between little kisses right at the cleft of that tight little bottom.
“Gnnnngggg,” Brian groaned, and Tate grinned, then reached under that lean, muscular body and stroked Brian’s loooonnngg, reasonably thick cock as it bounced under his tummy. (Brian was unaware of the absolute beauty of the ginormous wonder stick at the apex of his thighs. Tate had—so far—managed not to tell him that he could walk into any gay bar in the city, drop his pants, and yell “Who wants to support me for life!” and get some really eye-widening offers. He was planning to keep that a secret too!)
Tate
“Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss… you know, fucking something?”
Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just because it’s not… not… orificial sex doesn’t make it, you know, unofficial sex, right?”
Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from his chest through his stomach to his balls. “ Orificial sex?” he howled when he could find breath. “ Orificial sex? Oh. My. God! Is that like a word you just made up or something?”
Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.
And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute. They had managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half sigh, and Tate suddenly needed… oh, God, he needed.
He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark, ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed and off.
Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.
“Hold still!” he laughed, continuing his kissing exploration in its original direction. Brian’s asscheeks were tight, and when he sucked in his stomach, they dimpled. Tate wanted to play with them. He could see Brian’s testicles—getting hard and heavy—drooping in the center of that magic, mysterious triangle, and covered in blond fur, and he wanted to play with them from this new angle too. This was fun—this is what Brian had introduced him to, in their bed. Fun and exploration and pleasure and dizzying, giddifying joy.
Brian made things easy. He pulled up his knees practically under his chest and pushed his shoulders down against the bed… then he started fumbling in their dresser drawer.
“What are you doing?” Tate asked in between little kisses right at the cleft of that tight little bottom.
“Gnnnngggg,” Brian groaned, and Tate grinned, then reached under that lean, muscular body and stroked Brian’s loooonnngg, reasonably thick cock as it bounced under his tummy. (Brian was unaware of the absolute beauty of the ginormous wonder stick at the apex of his thighs. Tate had—so far—managed not to tell him that he could walk into any gay bar in the city, drop his pants, and yell “Who wants to support me for life!” and get some really eye-widening offers. He was planning to keep that a secret too!)
Tate
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