Page 16 of A Cure for Recovery

Lawson looks worried, though. Tommy pats his cheek, and thumbs at his lower lip and says, “It’s okay, sweetheart, I promise.”

They settle on a compromise, because that’s what makes marriages work, after all. Lawson pulls out and sits up on his knees; unfolds Tommy’s legs out straight and massages his quads and hamstrings and hip flexors until feeling floods back into them. Both of their erections flag, and they talk quietly about non-sex-related topics, and it reminds Tommy, with a sweet pang, of being teenagers. Of short refractory periods and talking about the latest episode ofStargatebetween rounds, naked and sleepy tangled up on Lawson’s twin bed.

The bed’s only a little bigger, now. But there’s a blood-warm white gold band on the third finger of the hand stroking up and down Tommy’s leg where it’s slung over Lawson’s hip, cementing what they were already sure of as boys.

They lie on their sides, facing one another, and Lawson stops his rubbing every few sentences with a gesture to emphasize his point.

“…usually the whole thing’s done over Zoom and phone calls and emails. But Leo’s going to some sort of seminar in New York in a couple weeks and he thinks it might be beneficial to meet the guy in person.”

Tommy frowns, and pets Lawson’s chest hair idly the wrong way before smoothing it. He wiggles his toes, gratified that he can, and pretty dexterously, too. “Did the guy’s email sound promising?” He thinks everything Lawson writes deserves to be published, but it’s been seven months since Lawson queried Leo’s friend, Keith, with a cover letter from Leo, and Keith only got back to him last week. Lawson’s been shruggy and evasive about the response, and Tommy’s ready to drive to New York and havewordswith this Keith.

Lawson lifts his hand in a so-so gesture, squints, and says, “Ehhh. He wasn’t disinterested.”

When Tommy makes a face and starts to slander Keith – it’s pretty much standard OP at this point – Lawson resumes petting at his hip, digging his thumb firmly into the crease of his thigh which unlockssomethingin the tendons there, electricity zipping all the way down to the ball of his foot.

“It wasn’tbad,” Lawson says. “He said he’d be glad to take a look at my first five pages.”

“What? The firstfive? Are you fucking kidding?” Tommy is outraged on his behalf.

But Lawson chuckles. “It’s like I said before: all this publishing bullshit takes ages. It’s not like insurance, where someone gets a call returned in a couple hours.”

Tommy snorts. “Itisbullshit. It’s unacceptable. A book’s good, or it sucks. It shouldn’t take seven months to think about.”

“It takes that long if you’re gettingthousandsof queries a day.”

“Yeah. Well. Keith sucks.”

Lawson’s smile is the smile Tommy remembers from their childhood, wide and unrestrained, eyes flipped to crescents; the same smile he wore when Tommy woke up in the hospital; nothing like the tight, mocking, angry half-sneers Lawson offered when Tommy was first back in town last year. This one, here, now, is the good kind, and it fills Tommy’s chest with a molten sort of heat that makes him think he might stop breathing, or melt like a chocolate chip dropped in a hot pan, and either would be fine.

Lawson leans in and kisses him, soft and slow, and his rubbing hand shifts to Tommy’s stomach, short nails teasing through his treasure trail. “How’re you feeling?” he murmurs against his lips.

Tommy tightens his leg, because he can now. “Ready.”

They make out a little, stroking and teasing until they’re both fully hard again, and then Lawson guides him over to lie on his other side, facing away, and snugs up close to his back.

Tommy loves this position, Lawson warm and big behind him, an arm banded across his chest, inside him and surrounding him so that Tommy feels small in the way that he craves when he’s with Lawson.

Lawson’s mouth is open and wet on the side of his neck, and his cock hits his prostate head-on with every thrust. Tommy’s seeing stars.

He reaches back to grip Lawson’s hip and urge him on, head tipping back as he pants. “Shit, shit, shit,” he chants, trying to be quiet. He doesn’t know if Bill and Lisa have come upstairs; he can’t focus on anything but Lawson. He thinks the bed’s creaking steadily, tellingly, but it’s hard to hear over his own choppy breaths.

Lawson reaches up to span his throat with his huge hand and Tommy whines.

“Baby,” Lawson whispers, low and throaty right in his ear. “Is this what you needed? You needed me in you?”

“Yes.” Tommy clutches at his forearm. “Oh God, Law, oh my God, fuck.”

Lawson grinds in hard on his next thrust, and Tommy whimpers, and Lawson makes this deep, hitching noise against his throat. “Baby,” he says like a prayer, like Tommy is precious to him. A wonder. “I love you. I love youso much.”

Tommy slurs what he hopes is a coherent answer, and Lawson reaches down to stroke his cock. Uses each downward stroke to grind Tommy’s hips back against his own, and it’s so good, and it’s too much.

“You gonna come, baby?” Lawson murmurs. “You can. It’s okay. I want you to.”

Tommy turns his head so sharply it hurts his neck and bites the pillow to keep from shouting as his orgasm tears through him. It’s worlds more intense than the ones he’s had since the shooting, and his whole body twists, and tightens, and cramps, and it’sexquisite.

Don’t stop, don’t pull out, he wants to say, desperately, but is too busy bowing against Lawson’s hold and shaking and falling apart.

But Lawson knows. As the first blinding wave recedes, Tommy feels the tight grip of his hand on his hip, and the erratic, hard thrusts that signal Lawson’s chasing his own release. He spits out the pillow and turns his head – the room’s spinning – reaches out with a half-limp arm, and Lawson knows what that means, too. Buries his face in Tommy’s neck, and pants, and hisses through his teeth, and babbles, “Yes, baby, oh yes. So good. Such a good boy. Look at you.” And comes with a grunt like he’s hurting, and Tommy holds the back of his head, love and pleasure blasting through them like a detonation.

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