Page 35 of A Cure for Recovery

Lawson kisses his cheek, the sensitive skin below his ear, and says, “Good boy.”

Oh my God. Tommy wants to get fucked, but worries he might not last until then if Lawson keeps this up.

Lawson kisses his throat, right over his fluttering pulse point, and then shifts down his body. Pushes his shirt up so it’s bunched above his chest, and kisses his sternum. Trails his lips up the gentle swell of his pec and sucks his nipple into his mouth.

Tommy closes his eyes and starts to reach for Lawson, wanting to cup the back of his head, to rake his fingers through his hair, those thick, short waves made fluffy by the humidity outside. But Lawson saidstay, so he grips two handfuls of the coverlet instead and endures the sweat torture of Lawson’s mouth.

Time drags. Lawson spends a long time working over his chest, until Tommy’s nipples are hard and aching, and his hips have started lifting of their own accord, seeking friction along Lawon’s ribs.

Then Lawson lays a hand down low on Tommy’s stomach and presses his pelvis flat on the mattress. “Nu-uh,” he tuts, and lifts up enough for Tommy to see his pink, damp lips, smirking.

Tommy clenches his handfuls of comforter. “Oh, fuck you.”

Lawson grins. “Well,that’snot very good.”

“Lawson.” He’s whining. Oh well. He’ll be embarrassed about it later.

Lawson chuckles, and smooths his hands up and down his stomach, teasing at his ribs, and his sucked-raw nipples. He hits Tommy’s shirt, still bunched under his arms, and says, “You wanna take this off?”

“Yeah.”

Tommy’s arms are still braced up above his head, so Lawson pushes it easily, up and up, leaning down as he does so. When the material clears Tommy’s face, Lawson kisses him, sticky-sweet, and unhurried, while he gets the shirt the rest of the way off his wrists and hands. It’s the kind of mind-altering kiss that drowns out everything else: the tension in his arms and shoulders, the pulse throbbing between his legs, the hitch of his breathing. The world narrows down to the way their mouths fit and slide, nip and press.

He cranes his neck, chasing Lawson when he lifts his head, and Lawson gives him a soft, indulgent sort of look, thumb tracing his lower lip where it feels slick and swollen.

“What?” Tommy asks.

Lawson breathes a quiet laugh. “Where are your arms, baby?”

“They’re…oh.” They’re around Lawson’s neck, his hands shoved into his hair.

“That’s okay.” Lawson kisses his cheek, chaste compared to the way they were kissing before, and it feels more reassuring than romantic. “I like how worked up you get.”

“Lawson–”

“I know, I know. Hold on.”

It’s awful when he sits up and then climbs off the bed, leaving Tommy cold and thrumming without him, but he enjoys the view. The shift and flex of muscles in Lawson’s back as he goes to their bags, crouches down, and retrieves the lube. He turns back and tosses it onto the bed, and then unfastens and shoves down his jeans and boxers. He’s a lot less clumsy about stepping out of them than he was when they were seventeen, finally grown into his long legs, but the effect’s the same as it always was: Tommy has a fleeting moment ofoh shit, he’ll never fit, followed by the knowledge that he can, and has, andwill, and then his mouth waters, and his legs fall open, and his face does whatever it is that makes Lawson’s eyes dilate while he watches him and strokes himself.

Tommy reaches for the button of his jeans, and suddenly Lawson’s there, batting his hands gently away and doing it for him. When they’re unzipped, he hooks his long fingers into the waistband of jeans and boxer-briefs both, and drags them down in one clean movement that leaves Tommy shivering. He chucks them heedlessly over his shoulder and gets back on the bed, kneeling between Tommy’s thighs. He rubs his hands up the insides, petting the hair the wrong way, and Tommy spreads them farther with a groan.

“You’re so hard,” Lawson marvels, touch skirting up to the join of hip and thigh, so close to where Tommy wants him, and then back down again.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Hm.” Lawson ducks down and licks the head of his cock.

“Oh –Christ, Lawson – Don’t, I’m gonna…”

Lawson sits back up, far too pleased with himself, and shuffles closer, taking Tommy by the hips and dragging him in closer, until Tommy feels the hot brand of his cock against his inner thigh. Justthatsends the breath shaking out of Tommy’s lungs.

“Lawson,” Tommy pants, “I’m not kidding. I can’t – I’m not gonna last.”

“That’s okay, baby.” Lawson picks up the lube and squeezes a generous amount into his right hand, rubs his fingers together to warm it. “I can make you come again.” Then he presses in slow and relentless with two fingers straight away.

When Lawson starts stroking his cock in a counterpoint rhythm to the thrusting of his fingers, the press of his fingertips over his prostate, Tommy comes and comes hard.

When he’s aware of his surroundings again, he finds that Lawson’s stretched out on top of him, letting him hold some of his weight, but not crushing him. His fingers are still inside Tommy, flexing gently, working him through the aftershocks, and he’s pressing kiss after kiss to Tommy’s slack, panting mouth, murmuring between, words that Tommy slowly begins to decipher.

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