Page 82 of College Town

“You don’t,” he says, sounding more than a little rough himself. “You have all of this power, and money, and these people–”

“Imissyou,” Tommy repeats.

Lawson sips at air that does nothing for his lungs. “Why are you here?” he repeats.Say it, fucking say it, you coward. I hate you. You left me, and you didn’t even tell me why, and I hate your fucking guts, you rich prick, I can’t wait to throw you out of this bed, I–

“I want you,” Tommy says, and leans down low, so his face hovers over Lawson’s. He reaches slowly, giving Lawson time to pull away, and cradles his jaw in one hand. His fingers are trembling. His breath is trembling, where it rushes over Lawson’s lips. “Lawson, please.I want you.”

This close, all Lawson sees are the dark fans of his lashes, the liquid blue-brown of his eyes in the midnight glow. “You have me,” he says, and Tommy closes the gap.

It’s unspeakably gentle, a butterfly slotting of lips against lips, dry and sweet. Tommy’s shaking all over, and the kiss is a plea.Do you mean it? Do Ireallyhave you?

I hate you, Lawson thinks, but it’s really,I hate what you did to me. I hate that I still want you. Of course you have me.

Lawson pushes a hand through his hair, grips tight at his nape, and shoves his tongue unceremoniously into his mouth. If he’s going to be weak, if he’s going to have this stolen moment in the liminal space of the wee hours, he’s going to take what he really wants, damn it.

Tommy melts. Hemoans. And he scrambles onto the bed to get closer.

Lawson sits up and hauls him by the waist into his lap, a motion he’ll marvel at performing as though second nature later, when he’s not in a frenzy to get his hands all over him.

“God,” Tommy gasps against his mouth between deep, slick kisses. “Fuck, ohGod. Law–”

“Hush,” Lawson admonishes, and bites down on his lower lip.

Tommy whimpers, grips his shoulders tight, and grinds down against his blanket-covered lap.

Lawson wants to take his time – but in a distant way. He’s so turned on he’s vibrating, so he paws at Tommy’s waist, flips his hands under his shirt, traces deep V-lines and chiseled obliques. Christ, Tommy works out and works outhard. Lawson slips a hand around to the small of his back, and presses down hard and flat to its curve, urging him closer.

Tommy rocks against him with a little bitten-back whine.

“Fuck, you’re needy,” Lawson murmurs against the corner of his mouth, and trails kisses along his jaw, loving the rasp of stubble against stubble.

Without his mouth occupied, Tommy pants loud and hot against his ear. “God.Shit.” He’s dry-humping Lawson’s stomach, clawing at his shoulders.

Here’s the thing that no one who knows Tommy as Tom Cattaneo Crime Boss would ever guess about him: for all that he hurls orders and snaps at other people, as much as he throws his insubstantial weight around, he doesn’t want to be in control in bed. For a moment, Lawson worried that had changed in the intervening years, that he developed a sexual dom side to go along with his fancy watch and his new haircut. But the moment Lawson blinked him into focus on the edge of the bed, he knew that wasn’t the case at all.

Now, he sucks a kiss just beneath the hinge of his jaw and says, “Shit, you need it bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tommy gasps, still grinding, trying to claw his shoulders to shreds. “Please. Law, please–”

“Shh.” Lawson licks his throat. Pulls his shirt collar aside and bites gently at the join of neck and shoulder. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. I’ll give you what you need.”

Tommy makes a relieved sound and sinks down deep in his lap, so his ass is resting right on top of Lawson’s dick. Jesus. Even with the blanket he can feel the shape of him and his mouth waters.

He puts his hands back under Tommy’s shirt and skims upward, over familiar, heated skin, and unfamiliar muscle tone and body hair. Tommy gets the hint and rips the shirt over his head, tosses it over his shoulder. His hair fluffs wildly around his head, and his eyes are nothing but pupil, lips swollen and slick, face dark with the rush of blood beneath the skin.

Lawson could look at him forever. And look he does.

He curls a hand loosely over the front of Tommy’s throat the way he wanted to earlier in the day. His hand looks even bigger by comparison than he expected, and he watches Tommy come to the same realization: eyes widening an impossible fraction, breath hitching. His Adam’s apple shifts against Lawson’s palm, and Lawson’s cock twitches in his boxers.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, and Tommy swallows hard again in response to the deep, gravelly shift of his voice.

“Hi.”

A call and response from the past. From those first shocking moments of teenage lust when Lawson realized he liked being in charge like this, and Tommy realized he liked being sweet to him when they were alone together.

“You okay?” Lawson asks, and Tommy jerks a nod. “Look at you.” He lets his hand trail slowly down his throat, over the dip at its base, and to his chest. The groove between his firm, leanly muscled pecs. His hair is sparse, here, but dark, his nipples small, dark, hardened points that Lawson traces and presses and flicks at with both thumbs.

Tommy’s head falls back on a hiss.

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