Page 123 of Walking Wounded

Hal gasps into their kiss. “God…”

Luke gives him a few strokes and then aligns their cocks, wraps his hand around both. It’s dry, but it’sthem, and they’retogether, and so it’s electric, shocks rippling through his pelvis and up his spine, bottom to top.

“Here, gimme your–” Before he can finish the question, Hal’s hand is there too, both of them gripping. And Luke starts an easy rocking motion with his hips, grinding them together, pumping with his hand.

Hal surges beneath him, a wave, tightly coiled and ready to come apart. He tips his head back to breathe and he’s the most beautiful thing Luke’s ever seen: shirt rucked up, stomach carved in stark relief by the predawn light, pecs clenching and tendons leaping in his neck.

He increases the pace, panting now.

“Oh,” Hal says. “Oh,oh–” And he comes, hot wetness on their hands, their stomachs.

His expression – total reverence, mouth parted, eyes trained on Luke like he’s the best thing in the world – and the slick heat send Luke tumbling over the edge after him. His arm gives out, the soreness and tension overwhelming in the aftermath. Hal catches him, holds him on his chest, the sticky mess gluing them together at their stomachs and hips.

Hal pets him in a mindless way that’s intimate for its unselfconsciousness. Through his hair, down his neck, across his back. Their heartbeats seem to touch, through bone and flesh and damp cotton shirts.

After a moment, Hal says, “I promise I can last longer than that. How embarrassing.”

“Well, you were a little excited,” Luke teases. Meaning the job, the bomber, the take-down on the front lawn.

But quietly, lovingly, Hal says, “Yeah, I was,” his fingers buried in Luke’s hair. And Luke thinks he means them, and together, and finally.

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