Page 10 of Coffee and Tea

He came and came, an extended relentless peak. Ben held him securely through it, and felt his own body gather and tighten: almost at the edge himself, just from the feel, the sight.

He held Simon in place across his thighs. He fumbled with his own pants, got his cock in hand—nearly swore aloud, because yes, yes—and pumped himself frantically: above his husband’s spent and quivering body, those roses-in-summer hues, blue silk ropes and red handprints and smooth skin—

He came in long hard spurts all across Simon’s freshly spanked ass, adding white creamy streaks to the color. He groaned Simon’s name.

He dragged fingers through the mess, after: pressing down, knowing Simon would feel it, provoking the little shriek and sob and rocking of hips.

He whispered, knowing Simon was listening, if maybe not too coherent, “I love you so much.”

After a minute, once the sheer wild aftermath had faded, he tugged Simon’s ridiculous fuzzy pants all the way off and used them for clean-up, and undid knots and bindings, with care. He left the collar on, and tugged Simon over to sprawl atop him, on the sofa. He was dressed, and it’d be sticky; he didn’t have even a single fraction of a care.

The sofa and the curl of rope and the heap of pink fuzz, and Ben’s own heart, all purred, contented.

He cuddled Simon and talked to Simon and petted Simon—anchors, for resurfacing, and for after, as emotions and endorphins wobbled—while his husband murmured indistinct not-words and nuzzled him and nestled close against him, and once lifted a hand to touch the collar, uncoordinated and drowsy.

Sooner than Ben might’ve guessed, Simon said, “Well, that was exactly what I needed, sir. Thank you.”

“Any time. Literally. Whenever you want. Just let me know.”

“And if you’re mid-seminar and discussing the political landscape of spycraft in the nineteen-eighties—? Oh, well, you’d probably take me to your office and tell me to be good and wait, and then bend me over your desk, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep. I like this too, y’know.”

“My delightfully kinky secret agent.”

“Your husband,” Ben said, and tucked his face into Simon’s hair, feeling golden strands against his cheek, his mouth, his closed eyes.

“Yes, very much that. I think…” Simon lifted his head, which meant Ben had to move; their eyes found each other, though. “I do feel better. It’s a relief, if that makes sense—I told you about something I did wrong, you spanked me, you told me you knew I could be good…it’s a sort of…cleansing.”

“At your service. Speaking of, shower?”

“Yes. Momentarily.” Simon stretched up to drop a kiss on Ben’s chin. “You like Colby Kent.”

“Um,” Ben said, given everything he and Simon had just been doing. “You can’t think I was thinking about—”

“No, no, sorry! I just was thinking…you’re a fan. You and romance.”

“Well, yeah, but if you don’t want to face him, we won’t.”

“I think you and I both should. Speaking of cleansing. And forgiveness. And you memorizing half the dialogue from Steadfast.”

“It’s a modern classic!”

“Not arguing. I liked it as well. You’ll need a new suit,” Simon added, and kissed him again, weightless and overjoyed, “for a party in a library museum, in London, meeting Colby.”

Chapter 3

The gala glimmered. Dresses and suits, fluttery and lacy and silky fabric, rustled. Champagne fizzed. The eighteenth-century museum walls puffed up with pride, and every quirky painting and antique astrolabe and historical chess-set shone its best. Happy to play host, thrilled to encourage a love of books and history and people getting out checkbooks to support said books and history.

Jason said, “It’s a perfect location.” He had a hand on Colby’s back, not possessive but guarding, with purpose. They’d done the entrance, the hand-shaking, an extensive round of greeting and chatting and saying hello to the donors who’d paid for a moment with Colby Kent. They’d retreated, for a moment. This corner of the room was erudite and sympathetic. “Will anyone care if I go look at that whole collection of games and gaming and dice across the centuries, and will they mind if I borrow some for a Wizards & Wyverns session…”

Colby laughed. “To the former, they’d love it; to the latter, someone would probably notice, yes, but I could ask…we’re very trustworthy, you and I, after all. It is a lovely museum and library; I’m so glad they’ve let us use the space. Fitting as far as advocating curiosity, collecting, reading widely, exploring. You know some of those dice are meant for divination, so they’re magical…I do wonder what would happen if you played with them, my knight…”

“I could summon you a unicorn. Or a dragon. To be your friend, obviously.”

“Well, yours too. Mutual draconic friend-sharing. Some sort of water-dragon, or—” The words hung, unfinished. Jason spun the direction of Colby’s gaze. Kept his hand at Colby’s back, for balance.

The person who’d just come in was short enough to be semi-obscured by other bodies, many of which had descended upon him and seemed to be very enthusiastic. Jason, despite being tall, tried to see. He also tucked Colby into the circle of his arm, because he had a fairly good guess.

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