Page 28 of Arrows

“Good,” Van said, and drew him in closer, over to the bed, and kissed him.

He had a bit more experience now, though not so much with undressing another man; Milo assisted, hands colliding, wandering, exploring. Van got them naked, Milo under him, and did a lot of that touching, stroking, caressing. Milo moaned and quivered and surrendered beautifully to sensation, in all sorts of delectable ways: arching up and begging and gasping Van’s name, cock rock-hard and dripping all over himself.

Van bent down to lick him, to taste him. Milo all but screamed, one hand finding Van’s hair, one hand clutching the sheets. Van found out what he liked, the places and rhythms, and did that more, lips and tongue busy learning the shape of him, one hand fondling the heavy weights below. Milo’s hips jerked frantically.

Van lifted his head, let the shaft slide along his lips. “Good?”

Milo whimpered, collapsed against creamy bed-linen, lips pink where he’d been licking them, shiny as his cock.

“Which way do you like things?” Van stroked him slowly, hand around his shaft, pumping. His own cock was stiff and dark and full; his body hummed with need, with care, with fondness, with love. “Me taking you, you taking me, neither of those? Just my mouth? Tell me what you like.”

“Oh Goddess,” Milo said, fervently. A bead of dripping want pooled at the tip of his cock. “I—I—I like either part, all of it—I’ve done both—oh fuck, Van, that, please…”

“I should have asked you that, before.” Van rubbed a thumb over the drip, the slit, testing. That got another moan, long and liquid as surrender, and more wetness. “You know about me. And you said you’ve done this before.”

“Yes…a few, some, I always knew what I liked, I like sex and I like people—oh—Van, please, please, I’m going to…”

“Can I fuck you? This time. We can do both. I want you like that, too. But this time…” He did that combination of caresses again. He liked the result. “I think I want to make you feel everything. Good?”

“Fuck yes,” Milo said weakly, gazing at Van’s hand on his cock. “I’m yours. All of me.”

“You are.” Van moved up and kissed him, and almost thought better of it because his mouth had just been on Milo’s prick; but Milo did not seem to mind, and kissed him back, meeting him with equal hunger, eyes big and blue and overjoyed. He also got a hand on Van’s prick, fondling, teasing.

Van found their oil, this time: finally using that vial. It had a faint scent, not strong: vanilla, or just sweetness, an echo of Milo dressing him up and stroking scent through his hair. He kissed Milo’s hip, over a constellation of freckles; he pressed his face against Milo’s thigh for a moment, simply breathing.

Milo’s hand came down to run through his hair. Van smiled against the freckles, and kissed him again.

He took as much care as he knew how to, as patient and tender as he could be, with his hand and Milo’s body and opening up. He might’ve been too careful; Milo eventually said, “I won’t break, Van, I love you, now do more,” and put a hand over his, both their fingers growing slippery. Van blushed, and learned about how that worked, when not magically assisted. He guessed he’d got it very right when he moved the fingers and Milo shrieked his name, back arching, muscles rippling with pleasure.

Van made and underlined some mental notes, at that.

He wanted Milo around him, under him, everywhere; he wanted to feel them together, and he kissed Milo wordlessly and got himself into place, there, his length and his tip against Milo’s sweet oil-slick body. He pushed in, gradually.

Like nothing else. Not ever. Milo’s face, those eyes, the sounds. The hot tight depths of him. The way Milo’s breath shuddered and his mouth shaped the word, “Love,” as Van took him and filled him up.

Van moved inside him, thrust and plunged and tried to find that spot again; he knew he had when Milo clenched around him and gasped his name, head falling back against pillows. Van had a hand on Milo’s shaft, a loose grip for more sensation; he stroked and thrust and whispered, “I love you,” and watched Milo begin to come for him, long drawn-out spurts of release that streaked white-hot between them.

Van groaned—couldn’t help it—and felt his own body rock forward in response, coming, spilling himself; the incandescence swept through him and swept him away.

He collapsed across Milo, after. Needing to touch. Not caring about stickiness.

“Oh fuck,” Milo said, breathless, “you’re so—I love you.” His arms went around Van, holding them both securely in place.

“Good?”

“We’re doing that again.”

“Good.”

“I love how you feel. Right here, like this.”

Van kissed his nose. “Me too. Um…messy, though…”

Milo made a face; Van laughed, said, “I’ll handle it,” and moved, tenderly.

He found a cloth, and a pitcher of water. He hadn’t done this part much, but he wanted to; that beautiful welcome throb echoed through his chest, worshipful and serene, when he washed Milo’s body clean and checked for soreness, aches, anything requiring his devoted care.

“I feel wonderful,” Milo said, watching him. “Come here.”

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