© 2001 Kellie Matthews
Ray picks me up at the Consulate, and as usual he has the radio on. He's found
a new station, though, one he doesn't usually listen to. Their commercials proclaim
them to be an "Oldies" station. I listen to a few of the selections,
then look at Ray ruefully.
"It's somewhat depressing to realize that these are now considered 'oldies.'
It doesn't seem that long ago that they were popular."
He looks at me in surprise. "You know this stuff?"
I try not to roll my eyes. Honestly, sometimes I think he thinks I was raised
by wolves right alongside Diefenbaker. "Yes, Ray. We do have radio and television
in the Territories, though at times the reception can be tricky when the aurora
is active. Cable has been a boon for that."
"Oh. Cool. So, like, you know Flock of Seagulls, and Duran Duran, and the
Eurythmics, and Pat Benatar, and Billy Idol?"
"Talking Heads? Genesis?"
"He stares at me, shakes his head, smiling a little. "Hunh. Never would've
"Why not?" I ask, not quite offended, but on the verge.
"Well, I don't know. I mean, we're the same age pretty much, but I guess
I thought you listened to classical or country or . . . Tibetan gong-ringing or
"Tibetan throat-singing?" I ask, even though I know better. Sometimes
I'd like to have a lock on my mouth. By correcting him I'm just furthering his
impression of me, and I know that, but I can't seem to help myself.
He nods. "Yeah, that."
"Well, mostly we got the higher-powered Top-40 stations out of the States,
and there wasn't much in the way of classical available. And as for Tibetan throat-singing,
that's even rarer." I don't mention my grandmother's extensive record collection.
I'm trying to make a point.
"But I know you like country," he says, frowning a little. "You
even sang with the Canadian National Treasure and all."
"I like a great many things. Most of which you haven't a clue about,"
I add, a little testily.
"He looks at me oddly, and one corner of his mouth lifts in a quirky smile.
When he looks back at the road I stare back at him, wondering what he's thinking.
I have an idea, but it's probably wrong. Though I've been having that idea quite
a lot lately, and perhaps I ought to be listening to my instincts. At this point
I know him better, probably, than his ex-wife ever did. And despite the gaps in
his knowledge, he knows me better than any other living soul.
"Yes. That's so," I say, and I hate the annoyingly prim way it comes
His smile widens and he glances at me again, his gaze bright under his lashes,
almost . . . flirtatiously. "Yeah? Like what?"
Damn. He sprang that trap quite nicely. I certainly didn't see that coming. I
scrabble desperately through a suddenly-blank mind, searching for some unremarkable
tidbit to offer him. "Candy," is the first thing to come out of my mouth.
His eyebrows go up. "Candy?"
I nod. "I'm afraid I have a terrible sweet tooth." It's not quite a
lie. While I can easily avoid chocolate and most of the chewy, gooey confections
that Americans seem to love, there is one thing I find utterly irresistible. Which
is why I never buy it, though sometimes it's difficult to pass an in-store display
of it without stopping.
He frowns. "You? Mr. Three-squares-a-day, Mr. Eat-your-veggies, you have
a sweet tooth?"
"I'm afraid so. Are you utterly appalled?"
He grins. "Oh yeah. Devastated. Totally. I'll never look at you the same
way again. So what kind of candy?"
I'm ready for him this time, and shake my head. "Oh no, Ray. If I tell you,
you know you'll just torture me with it."
"Will not!" he protests with fierce and false innocence.
"You will. I know you."
He looks at me, wounded. "I wouldn't. I promise. Tell me?" he wheedles.
"Wild horses won't drag it out of me, Ray."
He scowls. "Anybody ever tell you you're a spoilsport?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
He looks disappointed. "Oh. Well, they were right."
"Yes, they were," I say, not bothering to disguise my smugness.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and suddenly pulls into a gas-station
with an attached convenience store. "Be right back. Need coffee."
Since he does this frequently, I don't find his behavior unusual. After a few
moments he comes back out with a cup and a small bag. He gets in, puts the cup
down and takes the lid off, then opens the bag, taking out a package of M&Ms.
He shakes about half the package into the cup, then looks at me, package in hand.
I shake my head, biting back a smile. "No, thank you, Ray."
Once more a slightly disappointed expression crosses his face, but he shrugs good-naturedly
and puts the package back into the brown paper sack, folding the top over. He
mixes his coffee with a stir-stick, sips, and closes his eyes in apparent bliss.
I find myself swallowing hard and looking away. He's nearly as tempting as an
in-store display. Funny, now that I think about it, he reminds me a bit of my
old favorite. Golden. Hard, but sweet. And if you're not careful, you'll cut yourself
on him when he gets too worn down. That line of thought degenerates, too rapidly,
into wondering how he tastes, and I clear my throat.
"So. The case?"
He takes another sip, this time without the blissful reaction, and nods. "Yeah.
Case." He starts the car. "Here we come to save the day," he half-sings.
"I smile a little. "So which of us is Mighty Mouse?"
The look of stunned amazement on his face is worth the ribbing I know I'll eventually
get for knowing that bit of trivia.
Over the course of the day I discover that his brown bag holds not just chocolate
candies for his coffee. He proceeds to tempt me with Life-Savers, caramels, peanut
butter cups, cinnamon bears, red and black licorice, and gummi worms. When none
of them does the trick, his growing discontentment is clear, but I don't give
in, though my instinct is to do so. I hate to see him cast down so I suspect in
the end I'll tell him. But not just yet. It's too much fun watching him try to
figure it out.
When he drops me off at the Consulate that evening he treats me to a long, sorrowful
"Not gonna tell me, are you?"
I shake my head. "No, Ray."
"Not even a hint?"
"Not even a hint."
He sighs. "Would you even tell me if I guessed right?"
"You are one tough nut, Benton Fraser. Well, tomorrow is another day."
"And as God is your witness, you'll never go hungry again?" I inquire.
He looks at me, momentarily baffled, then his brain makes the leap and he grins
and laughs, that near-cackle I love to provoke.
"I kinda think you're more the Scarlett type there, Frase."
He touches a long finger to the edge of my sleeve as he speaks, the play on words
proving yet again that he's nowhere near the mental lightweight he likes people
to think he is. I smile at him, I can't help myself. He smiles back, and the moment
is so near intimacy that I nearly lean over and make it so. But I'm not sure enough
yet, and in this I need to be sure. The certainty is growing though, with each
passing day. The longer we're together, the surer I feel of him. His gaze drops
to my mouth, as if he too is thinking of doing more than smiling at me, and then
he shakes himself and widens his eyes.
"Whoa. Zone out. Okay, off you go to bed like a good little Mountie. Pick
you up tomorrow, same Bat-time, same Bat-station?"
"I'll be waiting,"
He smiles, and nods. There's something in his smile that makes me think he's up
to something. I'm sure tomorrow will bring further experiments on his part. I
think on that as I finish my daily tasks around the consulate. I think about it
as I change for bed, and as I'm lying on my cot. Much later I think about what
other experiments he might be willing to attempt as I close my hand around myself
and give myself the release I need in order to make it through a day in his company
without, as I've overheard Francesca put it, 'tripping him and beating him to
* * *
* * *
The next day Ray tries more American favorites, this time apparently going for
the movie theatre assortment. Milk Duds, several varieties of filled chocolate
bar, JuJuBes, Junior Mints, something called 'Sour Patch Kids' which make his
eyes tear and his mouth twist, and even Jordan almond. None of them hold the
slightest interest for me. It's actually rather reprehensible fun, watching
him ostentatiously sample each one over the course of the day, exaggerating
his reaction to each in an attempt to draw me in. The fact that he's willing
to go to these lengths just to tease me gives me an odd, warm glow. Of course,
we both have what might be termed a competitive streak, so that's part of it,
but I know it's more than that.
I have duties at the consulate that afternoon, and Ray takes me back a little
early, insisting on walking me in. His motivations become clearer after he leaves,
and a few moments later I come out to ask Turnbull something and find the two
of them deep in conversation. I smile to myself, knowing that Turnbull has no
more clue about my preferences-- well, for candy at any rate-- than Ray does.
Turnbull's favorite is, of course, licorice whips. I've started to wonder if
he might have guessed about certain other preferences, because I often catch
him watching Ray and me when we're together with a slightly speculative look
on his face.
I know all about his friend with the well-equipped kitchen, so I suppose it's
not unusual that he might look for kindred spirits. I must admit it seems a
statistically odd coincidence that we should both be posted here, considering
the minuscule size of the detachment. I wonder, at times, if he too was banished
here for conduct that, while officially not condemned, is unofficially not condoned.
I put aside those thoughts, knowing they'll only depress me, and busy myself
with my work, staying up so late to finish that I fall asleep without attending
to what has become an almost nightly ritual.
Ray has done research, apparently, overnight, not to mention shopping. The day
commences with horehound sticks, which I have to admit are a slight temptation,
progresses through Altoids, salt-water taffy, French burnt peanuts, caramel-pecan
turtles, divinity, candied ginger, and dear lord, Turkish Delight, which I didn't
even think existed in this country. He's starting to look a tad bilious after
all this, and even Diefenbaker is getting tired of taking the extras off his hands.
At lunch he actually orders a salad, which tells me things have gone too far.
"I suppose I should go ahead and tell you. . . ." I begin.
He looks up from his greens. "Tell me what?"
"That my favorite candy is . . . . "
Before I can get it out, he puts both hands over his ears. "Whoa! No you
don't. No. I don't want to hear it."
"You don't?" I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head. "No. Gotta figure it out on my own, you know? Like you
always figure me out, I should be able to do that too."
"I can't always figure you out," I protest.
He laughs. "Right. What's my favorite candy?"
"Smarties. Or rather, their American counterpart, M&M's."
"Right. My favorite Chinese?"
"Kung Pao chicken."
"Lasagne with meat sauce."
"Right again. American?"
"Steak, baked potato, and salad."
"Bingo. See? You know everything about me."
"Knowing your food preferences is simply a matter of observation, Ray. It
has nothing to do with your inmost thoughts and desires."
"Hah. Bet you know all those too."
If only I did, I think, shaking my head. "No, Ray. Honestly, I don't."
He looks at me for a long moment, frowning slightly. "No?"
"You don't know what I want?"
"No. Other than the basic wants we all share: food, shelter, that sort of
His frown deepens. "Hunh," he says. "I thought you did."
I shake my head again. "I don't. I can speculate, but that's all it would
be, speculation. The only way I can know is if you tell me." As I speak I
have the oddest feeling we're not talking about basic needs any more. Or. . .
perhaps we are.
He's quiet and thoughtful after that, and I start to eat again, more out of habit
than hunger. The rest of the day is busy, and we end up working a case late into
the night. He's apparently run out of confections, or has simply given up trying,
and I find I miss it. Around two a.m., halfway back to the consulate, as we're
stopped at a traffic light, a song Ray likes comes on that station he's been listening
to lately. He smiles, tapping on the steering wheel in time to the beat, half-singing
along with it. I wonder where he finds the energy.
"'I know a guy who's tough but sweet, he's so fine he can't be beat. .
. '" he sings.
Yes, so do I, I think.
He keeps singing, looking at the traffic light as if willing it to change. "Got
everything that I desire, sets the summer sun on fire. I want candy. . . .'"
By the time the song and Ray reach the chorus his whole body is moving to the
music, then he glances at me and grins a little sheepishly and stops singing.
"Kind of a stupid song, I know, but I . . . ." He stops in mid sentence.
Just stops, staring at me. I'm too tired to do more than wonder why. His eyes
widen. And he smiles. "Candy," he says, his voice just a shade husky.
I still haven't figured out his reaction, and he doesn't seem inclined to tell
me, he simply puts the car in gear and starts driving again after the light changes.
It takes me three turns to realize we're no longer headed for the consulate.
"Where are we going?"
"Store first, then home."
"Ah." I think about that, and realize I'm not sure what he means by
'home.' "The consulate?"
"You may call the consulate 'home,' Fraser, but I do not."
Well, that answers that question. We didn't have a chance to eat dinner, and I
decide that he must be planning to pick up food and take it to his apartment to
eat. It wouldn't be the first time we've done that, though usually he asks if
I want to, first. I wonder fretfully if perhaps he did, and I'm so tired I don't
remember it, though I didn't think I was that badly off. He pulls into the parking
lot of the supermarket near his apartment building and looks at me.
"You wait here. I'll be back." He grins. "Take a power nap."
It's not a bad idea. I close my eyes. He's back far sooner than I expected, carrying
only a small bag. Definitely not big enough for dinner. Now I'm very confused.
"Ray, may I ask just what we're doing?"
He looks at me and grins. "Nope."
Well. There's not much I can say to that. Seven minutes later I'm standing behind
him as he unlocks his apartment door. Diefenbaker, as usual, pushes his way in
first, leaving us to follow at our leisure. Since I'm still confused I stand just
inside the door a little uncertainly. Ray puts down his bag, takes off his jacket
and tosses it at a chair. It misses and slides to the floor, but he's already
turned around, and his fingers are working at the slide on my lanyard. I stare
at him, but his gaze is fixed on his task.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting you out of this," he says matter-of-factly, as if undressing
me is a part of our normal routine.
"Oh." I wonder briefly if I'm actually asleep. Probably. Well, at least
it's an interesting dream. He's quite deft. The lanyard is off, and he's working
on the Sam Browne already. "You seem to be familiar with the uniform."
"Well, yeah. I've done this before."
A hot streak of jealousy courses through me. "You have?"
"Yeah. Had to take off Turnbull's uniform."
Turnbull? He's taken off Turnbull's uniform?? He and Turnbull have. .
. my mind refuses, utterly refuses to go there. But if they have, then what's
he doing with me? I reach up and catch his hands, glaring at him sternly. "Ray,
people are not interchangeable."
"Like snowmobile parts, yeah, I got that. What's the problem here?"
"You can't go around undressing every Mountie you meet."
He snorts. "Like I'd want to? What's the. . . oh." He grins, shakes
his head. "I meant I took it off me, doof. When I borrowed it."
"Ah." I'm relieved. Extremely so. I let go of his hands and he gets
the Sam Browne off and has started on the tunic buttons when he pauses and looks
up at me, his eyes bright and amused.
"You're pretty monosyllabic tonight, Frase. Cat got your tongue?" he
asks, his own tongue flickering out to moisten his lips.
Oh dear god. Ray and beautiful words and tongue and undressing. This is without
doubt the best dream I've ever had. My knees are feeling a little shaky, and I
can't think because all the blood that should be in my brain is going to my groin.
"I . . . yes," I admit as he finishes unbuttoning my tunic and opens
the collar with a swift rip of velcro. He tugs the garment off me a little roughly
and tosses it over with his jacket, though it actually stays on the chair. I should
probably protest that cavalier treatment of the uniform but honestly, it's only
a dream and some things just don't matter in dreams.
"That's okay," he says, and pushes me back a little until I'm leaning
back against the door. "Close your eyes."
I close them. There's a rustle of paper, a crackle of something that sounds rather
"Open your mouth."
I do. And a flat disc of something is pressed onto my tongue.
Creamy, buttery, with a hint of burnt sugar and a faint, faint ghost of salt.
A flood of nostalgia momentarily overwhelms arousal. Walking with my grandfather,
waiting eagerly for him to open the bag and hand me a butterscotch. Oh, God. He
did it. He did it. I open my eyes and he's watching me like the cat that ate the
canary. And I'm not asleep. He's close, in my space, so close. He wraps his hands
around my suspenders, tugs me forward, his eyes serious and intent.
"I'm only going to tell you this once," he says, and then he smiles.
"Oh hell, that's bull, I know damned well I'm going to tell you this a lot
more than once. I am in love with you, Benton Fraser."
"You. . . ." I begin, and in my amazement I nearly choke on the candy
I'd forgotten was in my mouth.
He grins. "Careful there, I don't want to have to Heimlich you. I got plans
for you that don't involve breaking your ribs. And yeah, I. Absolutely
I tuck the candy safely into my cheek. "Ray. . . I . . . ." God. I'm
frightened to death to say it. He's so much braver than I am. "I . . . too,"
I finish inadequately.
I wait an agonizing second or two, and I see his smile gentle and his eyes warm.
Relief surges in a heart-pounding wave. He understands. He understands.
"Greatness," he says softly, then the warmth in his gaze goes hotter,
and his smile turns into one I've never seen before. "Now, my turn to taste,"
he says, and leans in. I watch him until my eyes cross, unable to take my eyes
off him, and when his lips cover mine I open to him. It's instinctive, like breathing.
Breathing. God. His breath mingles with mine, his tongue steals the candy, returns
it, and we pass it back and forth between more serious kissing until it's a sharp
sliver of sweetness. He steals it then, crunches it down in a single bite, then
his hands are in my hair and on my shoulder and he's steering me towards his bedroom,
still kissing me. I drag my mouth free, feeling my pulse beat in my swollen lips.
"How did you know?" I whisper.
He grins. "Just did."
"You want . . . this? Me?" I still can't quite wrap my brain around
"No, Fraser, I always eat candy that way."
"You'd better not," I say, my voice a rough growl. And this time I'm
the one leaning in, and he tastes so good, so good. Better than any candy. I kiss
him until I can't breathe, then I turn my head to gasp air into my lungs and at
the same time pull him close, both hands on his backside, grinding myself against
his belly, feeling the welcome heat and hardness of him through his jeans and
my trousers. He pulls back a little, reaches down, cups me and squeezes a little
roughly. My teeth close on the first available surface, which happens to be his
shoulder. Fortunately his Bulls sweatshirt keeps me from doing damage, but the
sound that escapes my throat is disgraceful. I flush, but he just laughs, shaking
"God! Make that noise again and I'm gonna come right here. Let's get this
show on the road. Bed. Naked. Now."
I manage to find a few wits. "Do you have . . . ."
"We're covered. Come on."
Wait. Wait. I need to know. "You've done this before?"
He smiles. "Oh yeah. Not for a while, but yeah. You?"
I nod my head. "Yes. As you say, not for a while, but yes."
I see a flicker of surprise in his gaze, then he smiles. "That makes things
easier." He looks at me seriously. "You sure you want to?"
"God, yes," I say fervently.
The smile comes back, sunrise bright. "I'll take it easy on you."
I shake my head. "Don't."
He closes his eyes and swallows hard. I track the movement of his throat hungrily,
then look back up to find him watching me.
"God, what you do to me. Come on."
I'm pulled into his room, and his hands are quick and deft, stripping me out of
my suspenders and henley, even getting my trousers unfastened and halfway down,
then he stops and shakes his head.
"Boots," he says despairingly. "I never did get the hang of those."
I can't help laughing. My success at stripping him has been less than spectacular,
so I nod at him. "You take care of your own things, I'll get the boots."
He leans to kiss me briefly, draws back smiling. "Do it fast."
Sitting down on the edge of his bed a little self-consciously, I do. I doubt I've
ever taken less time to get my boots off, but even so by the time I'm finished
so is he, and I just look at him for a long time. Long enough that he flushes
and shifts uncomfortably. I know he doesn't see it, but what I see when I look
at him is beauty. Body, mind, and most especially, heart. And the emotions that
come over me then are nearly painful. God, to want, and to get. To want
and have it feel so . . . right. So clean.
"Hey. Still time to back out if you want."
Ray's quiet offer brings me back to the present with a snap and I shake my head.
"No, oh no. I was just. . . being ridiculous."
I hold out my hand. He takes it, awkwardly, neither of us are quite comfortable
in this. Yet. I tug him forward and wrap my arms around him, my cheek against
his belly. His skin is silky, warm, and covered with a fine down of dark blond
hair, also soft. His hands caress my shoulders, ruffle my hair, and then settle
on my shoulders again. I turn my head and kiss his stomach, just below his navel.
He laughs a little at that, and I push him back and stand up, and he's quick to
pull me in against him. We stand like that for a moment, just absorbing the moment,
then I can't stand it any longer, and my mouth seeks his again. Soft kiss. Gentle.
He gives a satisfied sounding purr in his throat like an oversize cat, and suddenly
I don't feel gentle any more. I want him. Now. I need him. He's mine. He makes
a surprised noise when I push him onto the bed, but he's laughing, too, as I straddle
him, breathing hard.
"Wondered when that was gonna show up," he says, grinning, crossing
his arms behind his head as if he were lying on the grass in a park somewhere.
"Knew it would."
He knows me. Down where it matters. I lunge for his mouth, take it in a
kiss that's half bite, and he's holding me and biting back, and he feels so good
under me-- hard, and strong, and solid. He catches my hips in his hands and pulls
me against him, rocking up against my belly, making me rock against him in counterpoint.
I scrape my teeth along his jaw, feeling the bite of stubble on my lips, not caring,
kiss and suck at the vulnerable spot below his ear, and he mutters something incomprehensible,
his fingers digging into my buttocks.
That sends a shock of need through me so strong it nearly sends me over the edge.
I go still, gasping, muscles taut. His fingers flex, and I shudder. "Don't.
He nods, and his fingers slide up to the small of my back, tracing circles there,
sometimes sweeping up to fan over my shoulders in a caress, then returning. Once
he rests his palm against the scar beside my spine, just for a moment, but the
warmth of his touch seems to melt some cold knot inside me there, healing something
I didn't know was still wounded. Almost instantly that eases my urgency, but I
know now what I want. I thought I knew before, but I was wrong. I lift my head,
kiss him again. Again I try to be gentle, to convey how much he makes me feel,
but again, it quickly turns into something hotter and wilder. I can't keep my
hands off him, my tongue off him, my teeth off him. I can't seem to stay gentle.
I just need him too much. Need this too much.
"Ray. . . ." I stop. How to ask him? The ways I would usually say this
sound either like one of Francesca's romance novels or a scientific treatise.
No. I know the word he would use, the one that will arouse him. The one that,
truth to tell, arouses me. I use it deliberately, my voice rough. "Ray, fuck
I feel him tense under me, feel his erection surge against my belly. Surprise,
and more. "Oh, Jesus, Ben," Ray gasps. "Yeah. Oh yeah." Somehow
he manages to flip me onto my back, and he's above me, his mouth hot against mine
in little nipping kisses. He pulls back suddenly, and groans. "Damn it. Hang
on. I'm stupid."
Without elucidating, he rolls out of bed and dashes into the front room, returns
a moment later with the bag from the market. I'm reminded that the male human
body in a state of arousal can be an amusing thing. Grinning sheepishly he upends
the sack and dumps the contents onto the bed: an open bag of Werthers candies
and a bottle of lubricant. I'm not sure which of them arouses me more, but together
they are nearly unbearable.
"Ray, now," I growl.
He laughs. "Oh yeah."
He slides back down next to me, picks up the bag, shakes out a candy and unwraps
it, puts it in his mouth, then leans to kiss me and pushes it between my lips
with his tongue, then he slides away and leaves me with that wholly inadequate
substitute. Sweeping the rest of the candy off the side of the bed, he proceeds
to open the bottle of lubricant. A shiver shakes me, not cold but anticipation,
as he picks up the bottle, shoots me a wicked smile and swivels on the bed so
his head is on my hip. Before I have time to react, his fingers curve around my
penis and he takes me in his mouth.
Surrounded by his heat, I gasp, and because we are curled like yin and yang I
breathe in one of the most erotic scents I can imagine, the perfume of Ray's need.
His penis is very close to me, long, thick, and beautiful, flushed with arousal,
the flared head shimmering with pre-ejaculate. It takes only a small movement
to reach out and grasp him, bring my mouth to him, take him in. Strangely, his
bitter salt blends beautifully with the creamy flavor of the butterscotch tucked
in my cheek. The weight and texture and shape of him is perfect in my mouth, made
for me, and I show him my need with my mouth as he does the same. His sleek tongue
strokes me languidly, and his sucking isn't meant to bring me to completion, just
to pleasure me, which it does. I hope my mouth on him feels even half as good.
I still want him to take me, though, with an ache that makes me shift one knee
up and out. If he doesn't take the hint, I'll be more direct. A touch on my perineum
tells me I won't need to though. He strokes me almost too gently, but each time
closer to where I want his touch. His fingers leave me for a moment, return to
spread me slickly, and God. . .yes. There. Finally. One finger breaches
me, and between that and his mouth, I'm once more balanced on the edge.
He presses deeper and I arch restlessly with a gasp. He slides his finger out,
back in, out, back in, until the burn eases, until my hips are following each
movement, then on the next out-in he adds a second finger and lets me slip from
his mouth, a relief now, because I don't want to come until he's inside me. The
burn eases faster this time, and he puts his other hand on my hip and urges me
from my side onto my back. I draw up my knees, surrendering myself to him, trusting
He makes a sound, a choked cough, and thrusts into my mouth almost deep enough
to gag me, but I manage to relax into it, taking the thrust, and he chokes again
"Ben. Jesus!" He sounds slightly desperate. "Let go!"
I do, instantly, because I know that desperation, and while I do want to taste
him when orgasm overtakes him, it's not my first priority. We can do that next
time. I know there'll be a next time. I saw it in his face, tasted it in his mouth
like a promise. He pauses for a moment, fingers still inside me, stroking almost
absently as he rakes his free hand through his hair, and takes a couple of deep
breaths before sliding his fingers free. God, I feel empty without them.
"Ray. . . ." My voice is a throaty whisper. "Need you."
He nods, his gaze hot enough to melt me, and kneels between my thighs. Another
anticipatory shiver shakes me as he drizzles more lubricant onto his fingers and
then slides his hand down his own shaft. I lift for him as he moves closer, presses
his penis against me with one hand, using the other for balance, his face taut
with concentration. He pushes against me, I push against him. There's a moment
of resistance, and I relax as much as I can while still pushing against him, then
there's a flare of heat and almost-pain and he's in me.
"Oh, God, Ben," he says softly, biting his lip, and I can sense the
shift in his muscles as he starts to pause there, to let me get used to him, but
that's not what I want. I want all of him. Now. So I flex my thighs and keep pushing,
and he makes a surprised sound and keeps sliding in, opening me up, going deeper
and deeper until I can feel the root of him, the soft crush of pubic hair and
the full, soft warmth of his scrotum.
"Yes," I whisper. "Like that." He leans to kiss me, a panting,
sloppy kiss, and the stretch cants my hips to a new position, and my thighs are
starting to shake from the stress of holding myself open to him, but I don't care.
"Please, Ray. Fuck me."
He shifts his weight again, gets his arms under my knees, taking the stress off
my shaking muscles, and then he's moving up, and in and oh God it's good, it's
beautiful and hot and perfect and he knows what the hell he's doing because my
wilted penis is pumping up rapidly to full erection with each thrust. This is
what I wanted. He kisses me again, stops to breathe, bites my jaw, thrusts in
hard, and I grab at his shoulders and meet each thrust as best I can, taking his
heat and hardness and desire deep into me where it sparks my own to heights I've
never reached before.
Then he's shivering, and shuddering, and moaning and I feel him, impossible I
know, but I feel him thicken, and throb inside me, and I know he's coming, and
that's what I need to go over the edge too, falling, spinning, dizzy, landing
softly on his bed, in his arms, with him saying my name over and over.
"Ben, Ben, Ben. Love you."
This time I don't stop to think about it, don't analyze it, don't hesitate. "Love.
. . " I pant out. "Love you, Ray."
That gets his mouth on mine again, though we're both still trying to catch our
breath so it's not a very satisfactory kiss, but it's sweet nonetheless. He withdraws
gently and eases me down to a more comfortable position, flopping down beside
me with a sigh, draping an arm and a leg over me. "Benton. Sleep?"
I nod, feeling the rush of released endorphins seducing any instinct I might have
to do something unhinged like return to the consulate and a cold and lonely cot.
"Cool." He reaches over, gropes, finds the switch on the bedside lamp
and clicks it off.
The room isn't exactly dark, we left the light on in the living room. I know it's
wasteful but I can't even bring myself to get up and go turn it off. Ray pulls
me closer, scrabbling one-handed for the covers and dragging them up over us haphazardly.
Fortunately the room is warm enough even without them. My mouth is dry from panting
and I slide my tongue around inside it, taste lingering hints of butterscotch
and Ray. Instantly my mouth waters. Better. He nuzzles my neck, and hums something
under his breath, and I smile, remembering the song. 'Someday soon I'll make
him mine, then I'll have candy all the time.' Oh yes. This is one sweet tooth
I can indulge without guilt.
* * * Just the Beginning * * *
(for them, anyway)
Whoa, no footnotes this time! What's wrong with me? :-)
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