He lifted Mercer’s hand, tenderly. “I could help with that.”
When Mercer didn’t protest, didn’t pull back or shrug the statement off, Rahil chose not to question further. He pressed Mercer’s fingers to his lips.
Rahil kissed one callus after the next, tracing tiny work scars and wrinkles, before gliding out his tongue in an experimental drag. He didn’t care what else was surely on Mercer’s hands, cloaked by the sticky sweetness—he could have happily been licking off anything, for the expression that crossed his date’s face. Mercer averted his gaze, his lips parting and his brow knitting. His lashes shuddered as he breathed out.
“Speak to me,” Rahil muttered against his knuckles. He’d meant for confirmation, but what Mercer gave him was far better.
“How does it taste?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“Dark and sweet,” Rahil replied, no hesitation, no shame. “With a hint of salt, and musk. Like you, complex, and lovely.”
Mercer leaned toward him, his breath shallow as it gusted across Rahil’s forehead. His other hand pressed to the side of Rahil’s head, taut as a drawn bow, as though that simple pressure might ease whatever excess of longing was going on beneath Mercer’s skin. His mouth nearly brushed Rahil’s temple as he whispered, “Keep…”
“Keep what, babe?” Rahil teased, letting his tongue graze Mercer’s skin.
Mercer made a sound that was so deep and disgruntled it was nearly a growl. It seemed to release something inside him, something Rahil had seen in every motion of his work and press of his hands during their long hours in the shed, and had been overwhelmed with even then. Now, centered fully on him and his acts, his pleasure, he could feel the demand in every crevice of his being, consuming him from the inside. “If you don’t finish the job, darling,” Mercer rumbled, “I will tie you up and throw you into the lake.”
Rahil went to work, dragging his tongue across Mercer’s fingers, treasuring each sensitive nerve ending like they were the length hiding between Mercer’s legs. His own cock was so sensitive with want that he could feel it straining, begging, and he thought of nothing but giving Mercer the same feeling with each kiss and suck of the sweetness on his fingers.
Mercer was clearly feelingsomething, because his voice was a darkened mess when he pulled his cleaned hand away. “Good boy,” he murmured against Rahil’s forehead.
It seemed to zap all the energy out of him, turning Rahil into a puddle against Mercer’s side. His fingers wove into Mercer’s like that was their home now, and he breathed deeply of the rich scent of Mercer’s neck. The pulse of his blood was so deliciously elevated. He nuzzled, tender, pleading.
“You want that?” Mercer asked, his free hand still, somehow, in Rahil’s hair, gently stroking over the pulled-back locks that fed into his braid.
“Mhmm,” was all Rahil could manage.
He swore he could feel the tiny side quirk of his lover’s lips as Mercer said, “You can wait.”
Rahil groaned, but then the hand in his hair slipped down, trailing over his shoulder and his chest. Mercer seemed almost clinical about it—clinical in his evenness, his purposeful stroking, like despite the commanding presence he was trying to exert, he was just as afraid of this falling apart as Rahil was. With the same steady pace, Mercer trailed his fingers over the edge of Rahil’s beltline and against the front of his pants.
Rahil’s dick seemed to swell against his touch in a frantic firework of bliss, making his head light and his body weak.
Mercer exerted just a little pressure, stroking softly in a way that Rahil knew would keep him yearning stupidly for as long as Merc decided to torture him. But it was a beautiful torture—a perfect, endless moment of sensation and hope and life, with Mercer’s skin beneath his lips, blood pumping just out of reach, and Mercer—Mercer Jacques Bloncourt, fae craftsman, father, stony-faced and boiling with so many emotions beneath—hisMercer was giving to him. The thought swelled so huge and delirious, from his mind to his chest, that his lungs were moving and his lips forming words before he half knew what he was saying.
“I love you…”
It was barely a whisper, just an echo of the thought that was blooming softly in his heart, but it hit him like a hurricane as Mercer went completely still. The tension radiating through him was palpable.
Rahil knew instantly that he should not have said it—not yet, not with the equally large confession he still held inside him. But he couldn’t say,I love you and your last love died at my fangs, now could he?
“Like this,” Rahil clarified, swallowing hard. “I love you likethis, so confident. It’s, uh, a good look for you.”
That tension remained though, as tight as Mercer’s breathing. His fingers wove through Rahil’s and slowly squeezed. “You could simply loveme, if you wanted.” They were broken words, mangled by so many emotions that Rahil could only distinguish them by looking at the chaos of feeling in his own chest and finding the same silhouette.
“Mercer…” He lifted his face, pressing it to the side of his date’s as he stroked his hair. Gently, he kissed Mercer’s temple. “I do love you,” he whispered. It was out now, wasn’t it? Whatever happened, it was worse to deny it. “I don’t know how it began, or how my feelings progressed this fast—except that I’ve seen so much of the world that I don’t love, and the more I see of you, the more I…”
It was so stupid. Somuchand so stupid, and after going on a thousand first dates that turned into nothing—most that he’d never have wanted anything else from, even in the most perfect of worlds—this felt like a different reality entirely. Like he’d broken out from some hellish canyon and found that there had been another 52hz tune echoing above him the whole time, calling to him from across a chasm of empty water.
Rahil gave a tiny laugh, as happy as it was disquieting. Sometimes the best things were wild and scary and perfect, he supposed. “Has Lydia ever played you that whale song?”
Mercer hesitated. He drew his thumb over the back of Rahil’s hand. “She… said it was me.”
The other loneliest whale.
Whatever dam had been holding in Rahil’s emotions broke in an instant of bittersweet joy, tears welling behind his eyes and his chest aching. He pressed his lips sweetly to Mercer’s temple. “Maybe the loneliest whale was both of us.”
“I’ve been so alone.” Mercer’s voice cracked. “I’ve had Lydia, but… she’s my daughter. She can’t hold me up or take care of me—she’s just akid.”
