Page 34 of A Cure for Recovery

“Not” – shit, he’s out of breath already – “unless you want to.”

Lawson’s nails scratch up into the hair at his nape and his lashes flutter, which prompts Lawson to hum a low, pleased note that goes straight to Tommy’s dick.

“I thought,” he continues, with no small amount of difficulty, “that we could – after – that we could get room service. After.”

“After?” Lawson teases, his grin a slice of blurred white this close. “After what?”

“Law,” he sighs, squeezing his shoulder hard. “What do you want? And I mean,” he adds, before Lawson can say anything self-sacrificing. “What do you want? Not just what you think I want to hear.”

Lawson draws back another fraction, far enough for them to see each other properly. His gaze tracks slowly from Tommy’s face, to his neck, his chest, the crotch of his jeans, one hand sliding to his inner thigh and stroking over the seam there, until Tommy takes a shuddery inhale. When his gaze returns to Tommy’s, it’s gone hot, and hungry, intense in the way that Tommy loves, and in a way it hasn’t been nearly enough lately.

“I want…” The hand on Tommy’s thigh lifts to cup the bottom of the champagne flute and urge it toward Tommy’s mouth. “For you to drink this. Slowly.”

“Oh shit,” Tommy breathes, shivering all over.

Lawson gives the bottom of the flute another nudge, and he raises it to his lips, and drinks.

Slowly, as instructed.

Lawson watches the movement of his throat, and on the last swallow, reaches up to press his palm there, right over the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

“Christ.” Tommy pulls off the rim of the glass with a gasp, and Lawson plucks it from his fingers and leans over to set it on the nightstand beside his own.

Tommy leans with the movement, not wanting to separate even an inch, and overbalances; nearly goes toppling off the side of the bed.

Lawson catches him by the waist and rights him effortlessly, which gets Tommy’s pulse racing. “You okay?” he asks, clearly amused, but his eyes are still big, and dark, and full of want.

“Yeah.” Tommy cups his jaw between both hands and kisses him.

Tommy knows he’s worked up – maybe too worked up – but doesn’t realize how acute it is, how quickly he gets hard, until Lawson’s murmuring, “Easy, easy,” against his lips, and urging him back with a hand at his throat again.

Tommy makes a frankly embarrassing noise of distress, and Lawson grins, and hooks his fingers in the collar of his shirt.

“Now who’s running a race?”

“I just…” Tommy pets over Lawson’s shoulders, and down his arms, grips tight at his biceps. The champagne went straight to his head, and now he’s flushed and a little dizzy – but not unpleasantly so. With the city view through the open curtains, and the big bed, he’s keenly aware that, for all intents and purposes, they’re alone – properly alone, locked in their own private bubble – for the first time since they got married. There’s probably people in the neighboring rooms, but no one they know; no worried parents who’ll come ask if they’re okay; no medical crises waiting to unfold that require their intervention. He doesn’t resent those things, butthey’re alone. He’s straddling his big, pretty husband, and they have nowhere to be, and nothing else to do, and Tommy’s vibrating out of his skin with how badly he wants to be destroyed.

“Okay,” Lawson murmurs, leaning in to press a string of kisses up the side of his throat. He breathes warm and damp against the underside of his jaw, and licks him there. “You really need it, huh? I know, baby, I know. I’ll give it to you.”

“Please.”

“Shh, come here.”

Lawson gathers him in close and rolls them; presses Tommy down into the mattress and braces over him on one hand, so he can cup Tommy’s face with the other and finally kiss him the way Tommy wants.

It’s agoodkiss. Deep, and slick, and messy, Lawson’s tongue insistent inside his mouth; his weight blanketing and immoveable between Tommy’s thighs, across his hips, his chest, putting pressure on his hard cock. Lawson kisses the way he writes, with thorough attention to detail, knowing just when to push for more, and when to back off, when to tease. He reads all of Tommy’s reactions, from the hands fisted in his hair, to the little gasps and shaky exhales that slip through in the fleeting moments their lips aren’t together. It’s something that shocked and delighted him as a teenager, when they first started making out like it was a sporting event, and something that delights him still. He knew back then that he wanted to kiss Lawson – more than he wanted anything, most days – but he thought it would be clumsy, or awkward, or even unpleasant. Wet mouths smacking against one another. But it was good then, and it’s better now, and by the time Lawson sits up and peels his shirt off over his head, Tommy’s worried his brain might have melted out of his ears.

“God.” The word’s punched out of him, as he exhales all in a rush.

The sunset gilds Lawson like a Greek statue, all wide shoulders and thick muscle, his torso not sculpted like a gym bro’s, but strong, from carrying his dad, from carrying Tommy himself.

Tommy reaches for Lawson’s fly – and Lawson plucks his wrists up and pins them back against the bed on either side of his head.

“Oh.”

Lawson leans down, and kisses him with deliberate slowness. “Stay there,” he says as he pulls back, voice gone low and velvety-gentle. “Can you do that?”

Tommy thinks a stupid squeaking sound is all that’ll come out if he tries to speak, so he nods.

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