Page 20 of A Flowering of Ink

He whispered, “It’s beautiful.” It was. Devon, in the center, was even more so. Elemental.

“I’m glad you think so.” Devon bit his lip; his hand moved, awkward, a gesture at the space. “I do love it.”

“It’s you in house form.” He took a step closer. Devon was taller, though Burne’s shoulders were wider. He might’ve felt too large, sun-battered, rock-scraped, clumsy in contrast; he didn’t, because Devon was looking at him like that, and that made everything feel like coming home.

Devon’s eyes flicked to Burne’s mouth, and back up.

Burne touched his shoulder, lightly. Brought the hand up to his throat, his cheek, a caress.

Devon’s watch made an expensive-sounding electronic chirp. Burne hesitated.

“It’s only the reminder.” Devon’s voice was even softer, lapidary warmth hushed and yearning. “Please don’t stop.”

“We could go more slowly.” He was tracing Devon’s cheekbone, eyebrow, the shape of him. His own voice sounded low, hungry, rumbling with desire. He’d dropped his bag again. It didn’t matter. “We’ve technically just met.”

“You know me.” Devon shut his eyes, opened them: a swoop of soot-black against pale mist. “I know you. I want this so much.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I won’t be if you don’t kiss me—”

Burne slid his hand into Devon’s hair, drew him in, and kissed him.

Devon kissed like thunderstorms too: opening up, electric, unafraid, instinctive. His mouth was as sweet as it looked, and he met Burne’s questioning explorations of tongue and teeth and teasing with equal delight. His body, pressed up against Burne’s, was tall and firm and hard with arousal.

Burne pulled back to whisper, “More?”

“More.”

“Here, or your bed, or—”

“Here,” Devon told him, “right here, this sofa—”

They tumbled onto it. They tangled together, arms and legs and Burne’s sturdy muscles and Devon’s clumsy grace. Hands moved, caressed, beckoned; Burne’s mouth tasted Devon’s throat. His beard left pink marks; Devon squirmed and arched up and demanded, “Do that again.”

Burne did it again. Somewhere in there his jeans and boxers got shoved down; he unbuttoned Devon’s shirt. Devon, sprawled out across sunrise color beneath him, made a different sound; Burne lifted both hands away.

“It’s all right.” One thin hand touched his wrist. “Scars. Just so you know to expect them. They’re old.”

He couldn’t not look, at that. Silver and thin, framed by open indigo, they were indeed old, long-healed: claws of surgery across Devon’s chest. He touched one, traced it.

“I’m still here.” Devon was watching him. One long leg wrapped around Burne’s waist. The hand came up to touch Burne’s cheek, to brush away emotion.

Burne whispered, “You’re right here,” and kissed him hard, and someplace in the flurry of desperate need and hushed gasps and bared skin he got Devon’s jeans and silky boxer-briefs tugged down, and oh Devon was lovely here too, long and thick and curved and wet-tipped with want.

He rocked their bodies together, got his hand on them both—and, fuck, he was going to come, already, just like this—with Devon moving under him, the feel and taste and scent of him, roses and salt and tea and flushed heat—

He managed to gasp, “This—like this, do you want—?” and Devon was saying his name right back, saying yes, and Burne gripped them both and stroked them and thrust their hips together and felt the wave rise up and unfurl and crash—

He came with a wordless cry of absolute ecstasy, spilling all over Devon beneath him. Devon just moaned and flung his head back against the blanket, baring the long line of his throat, and came on the spot, liquid spurts flooding out between them, plainly pushed over the edge by the feeling of Burne’s release all over him.

Burne collapsed atop him. Devon made an inarticulate sound and draped an arm over him. Their bodies were sticky. Neither of them had managed to get entirely naked. Burne had boots on. He’d been here maybe five minutes.

He nuzzled Devon’s nose with his. Devon’s eyes were shut. “Hey.”

“I’m very all right.” Devon looked up at him, beautiful, sex-flushed, radiant. “I’m wonderful.”

“Good.” Burne kissed him. “Good.”

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