Page 4 of Coffee and Tea

Colby swayed a little when Jason pulled back. His eyes held that familiar soft haze of bliss, the first lift and pull of deep euphoric submissive tides; but he said, “So would you like me on my knees, in this club, on stage with you?” because Colby even on the brink of subspace would forever talk. “Or tied to this very convenient bed?”

Jason laughed. “Got an idea. But you should be naked. Like my good boy should be.”

Colby’s mouth shaped the oh my, but no sound emerged; he outright quivered in response, clearly wanting, needing.

“Stop me if you want.” He met Colby’s gaze, out of character for a minute. “You remember all that.” They did have safewords and check-ins. They’d used the words, once or twice. It helped, Jason knew: not just the fact of consent and a system for it, but the knowledge that, when Colby had said something, Jason—unlike some uglier memories in Colby’s past—had listened instantly.

Of course he had. Not even a question. And he was glad Colby felt safe enough to speak up. With him, Jason: and the pride of it, the secret grateful awe that he’d been the person given this much of Colby, beat butterfly-wings in his chest for a second.

Colby nodded, and then, possibly in case the nod wasn’t enough, reinforced, “Yes, Jason.” His eyes were so very blue. “For us both. But it’s very, very good right now. All sorts of green. Lime. Pear. Apple. Oh—that sounds like an intriguing sort of pie, and there could be cinnamon, because I feel like cinnamon, I mean that as a joke about spice, obviously…”

“God, I love you.”

“And pie?”

“And pie.” And Jason needed to do something, to do something for his husband. Right now.

So he flicked open the buttons of that neat and tidy cardigan. Opening it up. Colby actually whimpered aloud.

Jason grinned, said, “Be good,” and peeled away sweater and shirt and Colby’s pants and underwear too, revealing every inch: slender swimmer’s muscles, firm thighs, the freckle at Colby’s collarbone, the other at the crease of his hip. So many details. So beautiful. Jason had memorized every line, shape, sensation of him, and every time wanted to discover him all over. Anew.

Colby’s cock, not as thick as Jason’s but long and lovely, with a nice curve, stood up from its nest of dark curls. Rock-hard, wet-tipped, it begged for relief. Colby shivered but didn’t touch himself, waiting.

“So good,” Jason told him. “All mine. This…” He ran a hand over Colby’s chest. “And this.” The hip-freckle, his fingers pressing in, not enough for a bruise. “And this.” This time he did touch Colby’s stiff cock, but lightly. A tease; an assertion. Making the point.

“Yes.” Colby sounded desperate. “Yes, please, I’m yours, all of me. I love that. I love this. I love you. Please show everyone how much I’m yours.”

“Yep. And I want you to look.” He turned Colby toward the mirror. Kept his other hand where it was, fondling Colby’s cock. Heard Colby’s gasp.

Jason felt the same. Seeing it, seeing them: himself fully dressed, jeans and a plain blue shirt, casual and powerful, hand on Colby’s dick like a leash, while Colby trembled naked and vulnerable and dripping with want, visibly craving him.

He murmured again, “Look at us. That’s an order, baby. Look at how much you need this. So easy for me, aren’t you? So ready. Begging for it. But only for me. No one else. Mine.”

Colby moaned softly. His legs shook; he kept looking, though. As ordered. His lips parted, dreamy and wet. His eyes were dreamy too, blue drenched in surrender. “Yes…yours…oh, yes…”

“And you’re so happy, aren’t you? Like this.” He stroked Colby’s dick, rubbed his thumb over the slit, laid claim to the spreading slickness. “I love you.”

“Love you. Oh, Jason…yes, please…oh, it’s like the rain. Into oceans.”

“Wet? No, wait, I know what you mean.” He brushed hair back from Colby’s ear, breathed into the curve, “Pieces coming home.”

“Dissolving,” Colby whispered. “So good, so much, so infinite…”

“Show me how good you feel,” Jason said. “Show everyone. Get on your knees.”

Colby slid to the floor, less coordinated and more instinctive response, but he did end up kneeling, poised there on the plush night-blue rug, at Jason’s feet. Hands behind his back.

Jason opened his own jeans. Drew himself out, large and dark and heavy. He was so hard he felt lightheaded; sensation quivered and gathered. He took himself in hand. Gave the length a stroke or two, above Colby’s upturned face. “You love being mine, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Colby breathed.

“And you love it when I get to decide what you get, when you get to come.” He did always let Colby come—and sometimes made him, multiple times, pulling it out of him—because Jason personally thought the best piece of the world was Colby coming apart from pleasure, lost in it, thoroughly given over to it, and trusting Jason with that. But he wasn’t above making his husband wait. Colby liked some denial, and liked Jason exercising the dominance.

“Yes, Jason…” Colby sounded quieter, small and blissful and pretty damn far under, now, with that tone and the languor in his body, face, mouth. Drifting, floating.

“So sweet,” Jason told him, and put a hand in Colby’s hair, tipping his head back; pushed his dick into Colby’s open mouth, deep because he knew Colby could take it. “Keep watching, baby. While I remind everyone how much you’re mine, and you’ll take it, and you’ll love it.”

Colby’s gaze slid toward the mirror, themselves, the imagined audience: himself on his knees, cock dripping and untouched, with Jason’s hand in his hair and Jason’s dick stretching those movie-star plush lips.

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