Page 36 of A Cure for Recovery

“…beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my beautiful baby.”

Tommy turns his head, buries his face in Lawson’s throat, and drifts off with Lawson’s pulse knocking sweetly against his forehead.

~*~

“Legs okay?”

He’s lying on his stomach, head toward the foot of the bed, folded arms and chin propped up on a pillow while Lawson works his glutes and hammies with frankincense oil. He’s so relaxed he thinks he could melt straight down through the bed, contentedly watchingThe Office, which has been running the whole time, unheeded, since they first got back in the room. It’s the one where Jim, Dwight, and Michael set up a sting for a guest starring Timothy Olyphant, one of Tommy’s favorite episodes, and between it, and Lawson’s magic, knot-unraveling hands, he almost forgets to answer.

“Good,” he says, voice muffled from the pillow. “Little tingly. No pain.”

“Yeah? That’s good.” He digs in with the heels of his hands, drawing a grunt out of Tommy. All the way down to the backs of his knees, and on the way back up, he pushes Tommy’s thighs farther apart.

Heat flares deep in Tommy’s pelvis. Not the flashfire, frantic neediness of before, but a lower, more pleasurable burn. He’s already come once, recovered, and this time, he’ll be able to last.

One of Lawson’s hands lifts away, and when it returns, it’s slicker than it was. It trails purposefully up the inside of his thigh, and then nudges up between his cheeks and presses at his entrance, where he’s still loose.

Tommy spreads his legs wider.

“Yeah?” Lawson asks, voice gone throaty.

“Yeah.”

Lawson presses in with three fingers and Tommy hisses, sensitive. “You wanna turn over?”

“In a minute. Wanna start like this.”

“Shit, yeah, okay.”

The mattress dips and shifts under Lawson’s weight as he rearranges himself. As he grips Tommy’s hips and lifts him up so he can get his knees braced on the mattress. The position immediately sends a pinching dart of pain down Tommy’s right hip flexor and leg, but it also stirs something primal and Pavlovian in the back of his head. He’s about to get what he wants, finally, and his cock jerks and thickens, and heat pools and pools in the pit of his stomach, a tightness that’s anticipated pleasure, and nothing to do with his shoddy nerves.

The fat head of Lawson’s cock nudges at him, blunt pressure that feels massive after his fingers, and then it’s pressing in, and in, andin.

Tommy moans. “God, yes.” He’s gone from relaxed and drowsy to rock-hard and needy in the time it takes Lawson to bury himself to the hilt.

“Baby,” Lawson murmurs, hands tightening on his hips, spasms Tommy knows will leave bruises. He grinds into him, breath hitching. “Don’t – don’t let me hurt you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Tommy braces his elbows and turns his head on the pillow so he can drag in a deep breath. “I know you won’t, you never do. Fuck me.”

Lawson makes a choked, whimpering noise, draws his hips back, and rolls them forward. Not fast, but hard, dragging against Tommy’s insides in all the right places.

Tommy decides – as Lawson’s hands tighten, and his thrusts speed up – that he wants, needs for Lawson to fuck him as hard as he wants to, as he used to, when they were stupid kids, and when they were grown men, whole and hale, and Lawson pinned him down in a featherbed in a rented mansion and took what he wanted.

Tommy arches his spine and pushes back each time Lawson drives forward. Until their skin meets with a loud smack. Until the tingling in Tommy’s legs becomes numbness, and his knee slips.

Lawson falters.

“No, I’m good, I’m good, let me turn over,” Tommy pants. When Lawson pulls out, his planned, sinuous roll turns into more of an inelegant flop. “Shit. You may have to help me – but I’m fine. Just. Come on.”

Lawson lifts his hips up and over, and settles his legs on either side of his waist. He’s flushed, chest, throat, face, and breathing hard, cock so hard it looks painful, nearly purple. But his touch is gentle up and down Tommy’s thighs, kneading at the twitching muscles there. His face crimps, and Tommy’s stomach drops unpleasantly. He’s going to stop, he thinks. Insist on waiting, or doing something else, or…

Tommy wraps his legs tight around Lawson’s waist, and hooks his ankles together at the small of his back. He reaches up to pet Lawson’s forearms, feels the tension of restraint there. He’s vibrating.

The desperation in Tommy’s stomach swells, and then pops like a bubble, that empty, animal want giving way to the sort of tenderness that makes him want to hide his face. How is it possible to long for someone when he’s right in front of you, touching you? How can love be so sharp it cuts, but in a good way?

His voice comes out small and shaky when he says, “Honey, I’m okay. Will you come inside me? Please? I want you to fuck me the wayyouwant to.”

“What if I want to be sweet to you?”

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