No Fear in Love

Father Weston Scott wasn’t sure if this was his fourth or fifth pint. He wasn’t quite tipsy, but his friend, Mark Goudy, didn’t let even a minute pass between rounds. Before the amber liquid was gone from his glass, Mark was on his feet and waving down another two pints. Weston probably should have put a stop to it—or at least insisted that he pay for a few—but he was having too much fun. He didn’t get a chance to see his friend often, and he was determined to simply enjoy himself and the memories between them. The heavy ring he wore on his right hand clinked against the glass as he accepted the fresh beer from Mark, and it was audible even in the dull roar of the pub. Mark’s eyes were drawn to Weston’s finger, and he frowned slightly. “I can’t believe you still wear that thing.” Weston smiled, amused at Mark’s tone of disbelief. The cheap ring had certainly seen better days. Sometimes he thought he should get the emerald reset in real gold or silver, or maybe even replace it altogether, but that ring had seen him through some very difficult times. He didn’t want to let it go. “There’s nothing wrong with this ring.” “It’s rubbish. Tell me you don’t still believe in that stupid superstition.” Weston did believe in that so-called stupid superstition. Of course, he couldn’t admit as much to Mark. Their friendship stretched back many years—since they were boys—but there were certain things Mark never understood, or tried to understand. The strength Weston drew from the ring was one of those things. When Mark looked at Weston’s hand, he saw a “gaudy piece of costume jewelry”. But Weston saw an expensive emerald, his lucky charm, a secret shield. He bought the emerald ring the day he became a priest in the Anglican Church. He had heard that emeralds were traditionally used to ward off demons and preserve chastity. Weston couldn’t say he didn’t believe in the devil, or in the devil’s work, but he had different holy objects to deal with that evil. Sometimes he needed reinforcement. A solid link to all he had lost and gained by entering the priesthood. Weston hadn’t taken a vow of chastity, but he was a representative of Christ on Earth, and the ring reminded him of that. He needed that reminder the most when he drank with Mark. “Right. Like you don’t have any superstitions? I saw you throw salt over your shoulder earlier tonight.” “Habit, mate. Which is the only reason you haven’t tossed the trinket yet.” “No.” He spun the ring on his finger. “I haven’t tossed it yet because it works. I haven’t been…tempted…once since I started wearing it.” The c**k of Mark’s brow was a s***h across his forehead. He leaned forward, his dark blue eyes searching Weston’s. His eyes were as riveting and intense as they had been since they were children; Mark had been the only one to break Wes into reluctant confessions. “Not once?” he dared. “Are you telling me the bloke who couldn’t even look at mag covers without getting a hard-on doesn’t ever wonder what it would be like to sink into hot, tight flesh and shag until your eyes pop?” Weston swallowed. The uncomfortably direct question didn’t surprise him. Not coming from Mark. “I may have wondered occasionally. But I’ve never crossed the line.” His mouth twisted in a smirk that seemed to grow sharper the longer he looked at it. “Just toed it a little then, yeah?” If it had been anybody else in the world, Weston would have shut the discussion down as completely inappropriate. But it was Mark. So he merely offered a sheepish grin and nodded. “A little. But never crossed it.” Anybody else would have settled back in his chair. Confession made. Discussion over. Not Mark. Mark had never been the type to back off anything. He had been the one to dare to go to London, to leave their quiet village life in search of something grander. When Mark saw something he wanted, he took it. It was why he had an arrest record as a juvenile, and a well-deserved reputation for raising hell. Weston had always secretly admired that about his lifelong friend. People often questioned how two such disparate people could be so close, even after all these years, but Wes never gave them the straight answer. He never mentioned that he wished he could be Mark. “I always thought it was a shame, you and the priesthood,” Mark mused. His voice was low and thoughtful, rich with warmth. “Such a waste.” “It’s not a waste to devote your life to God, Mark.” Weston sipped his beer, not willing to have this argument again. “I have a calling.” Mark didn’t look away. “You’re not lonely?” Weston couldn’t hold Mark’s gaze. He studied his half-empty glass, instead. An objective observer would never characterize his life as lonely. How could one ever be lonely when surrounded by the majesty of God? How could one ever wish for company when there were so many people in that little village who needed his comfort and aid? Those questions were moot, and even a bit tedious, when he was staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, wondering who would be there to comfort him when he needed it. “Who has time to be lonely? This is my first night off in weeks.” “And you’re spending it with me? I think I’m flattered.” “Don’t be.” Weston smiled. “Nobody else around here is willing to pay for a few rounds.” “Speaking of paying…” Mark peered into his empty pint glass. “We could always grab some Guinness from the shops before we get too pissed to drive home. We can take it back to your place and you can tell me everything about who’s got old and fat since I’ve been gone.” Weston knew if he agreed, they would spend all night getting caught up. A night’s worth of sleep was worth sacrificing. Mark didn’t come back to town often. “That sounds like one of your few brilliant plans.” “Oh, you can admit it.” He winked. “You even like my non-brilliant plans.” Weston snorted and stood. “Considering how much trouble I get into with your non-brilliant plans, not likely.” Weston waited outside while Mark went through his regular ritual at the pub—settle the tab, fall into a few conversations with people he used to know, run to the loo. The fresh air seemed to clear Weston’s head, but he knew if Mark had any say in the matter, he’d be feeling a bit tipsy again, soon. Mark had the tendency to get him more than a bit tipsy. The first time Weston ever got truly pissed had been courtesy of Mark and his illegally obtained Guinness. Weston had been a lightweight, even for a fourteen-year-old, and it only took two bottles before he puked all over his shoes. Mark had laughed until his face was bright purple, then slapped him on the back and helped him clean off his shoes. Weston wasn’t in the habit of drinking until he puked now, but he knew if he did make it that far, Mark would be there to help him clean up again. Mark emerged from the pub in a halo of smoke and laughter and shouts for him to come back. He waved, yelled, “Settle down, you lot!” and put his arm around Weston’s `shoulders. They leaned on each other as they walked down the street, silent until they reached the car. After a short argument, Weston conceded to letting Mark drive. He didn’t go far before stopping for Guinness and a pack of smokes, and then they were on their way, Mark chattering the whole time about whatever subject came to his head. It felt good riding with Mark like this. Familiar. A part of him wished the other man didn’t plan to head back to London the following week. But Mark could never stay in the village. They both knew it, so Weston didn’t consider bringing it up. Not seriously. Mark enjoyed the occasional visit, and sometimes he showed up around the holiday season, but the day he moved to London, he had vowed he wouldn’t return. When Mark left, it had felt like he had moved to another planet. A part of Weston never quite got over that hurt. Or entirely forgave it. The rest of Weston couldn’t have been more proud of his friend. Mark carried the case of beer once they exited the car, so Weston was forced to rely on his own powers to make it up the walk. He ignored the vague disappointment, as well as the temptation to at least hold Mark’s shoulder. “Welcome to my humble home,” Weston announced, flinging the door of his cottage open and turning on the light. It wasn’t large, but it served him well, the lounge close and cozy, the narrow hall leading back to the kitchen that took up the rear of the house. The cottage had served as residence for the church’s ministry for over two centuries. At one point there had been two bedrooms, but someone in the fifties had knocked out the wall separating the two tiny rooms so that there was one large space, more than adequate for a single man’s sleeping quarters. That’s all Weston ever did there. Mark sprawled on his tiny couch, taking most of it and forcing Weston to stand there awkwardly as he debated where to sit now. “You’ve got pint glasses, right?” “Sure do.” When Weston returned with two full glasses, Mark was in the exact same place. “Just don’t try smoking in here. That’s frowned upon.” Their fingers grazed each other when Mark took the pint. “I don’t know how you do it. What do you do for fun, Wes?” “There’s bingo on Thursday nights.” The joke fell flat, and Weston shrugged. “I didn’t sign up for this gig because I thought it would be fun.” He hoped Mark didn’t ask why Weston had made this decision, because he wasn’t sure he could articulate it. Especially since it had something to do with Mark. “You just learn to make adjustments for the things you can’t have or do.” “Still sounds lonely.” There was something wistful in Mark’s voice, a softness that didn’t usually color his words, but it was gone by the time he gestured in annoyance toward the empty space next to him, splashing a little of his Guinness against the back of the couch. “I suppose I could get married. Nothing stopping me, after all.” “Right. That’d solve all your problems.” “It’d solve a few, I imagine.” “Are you really standing there telling me you’d get married? Have you ever even touched a woman, Wes?” “No.” Or a man, for that matter, but he didn’t need to elaborate. Mark knew why the suggestion of marriage was ridiculous on its face. He’d be miserable. He’d make his potential wife miserable—not that he knew any women who would be remotely interested in marrying a gay priest. “You can bloody sit down, you know. This hovering makes me nervous.” “Sorry.” He settled on the couch and sipped his drink. “Enough about my boring life, anyway. What do you do for fun in London?” Mark shrugged. The cotton stretched over his shoulders, highlighting how much broader they were now than when they’d been younger. “Oh, you know. Pull gorgeous blokes. Take ‘em home. Shag their brains out.” He took a long swallow, his gaze unwavering. “Wish they were you.” Weston coughed violently as a mouthful of beer went down his windpipe. He doubled over, working to clear his lungs and try to make sense of what Mark had just said. The individual words were understood, but the gist of Mark’s statement was a mystery. “What?” he finally gasped once he could breathe. A strong hand clapped down between his shoulder blades, knocking more of the air back into his lungs. “You heard me.” How could Mark sound so calm about it? “It’s not like you didn’t know I was gay, Wes.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It’s not that. It’s the other thing. The part where you wish they were me.” “You’ve looked in a mirror lately, right? Wearing a cassock hasn’t made you blind?” “What? No. But, Mark…” Weston floundered for words, wishing he hadn’t had so much to drink. Maybe he could think of something to say if his brain wasn’t clouded. “We’re friends. We’re just friends. That’s all. Just good friends.” If the insistence sounded a bit too desperate, it was only because it had been Weston’s mantra since they were both fifteen. Slowly, Mark drained the rest of his Guinness and set aside his empty glass. Reaching forward, he closed his cool, damp fingers over Weston’s where they curled into his pint, holding him for what felt like seconds soaked in molasses before prying his hand away from the glass. “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate how gorgeous you are,” Mark said, placing Weston’s Guinness out of the way with his own. His hands were mercifully gone then, leaving Wes to stare at him, dumbfounded. “Is it such a bad thing? I mean, everybody fantasizes. Wondered. Even you do, remember?” “Yeah. But…” They shouldn’t even be having this conversation. His tongue was thick, his mind slow, and he knew that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He should be sending Mark on his way. Letting the conversation continue was so bad. It was very, very bad. Was Mark closer now, or was that just his imagination? Weston opened his mouth and you should leave became, “What do you wonder about?” A warm weight settled on his thigh. Wes glanced down, and the same long fingers that had just held his were stroking his leg. “All sorts of things.” Mark’s voice was huskier than normal, low enough to reverberate through skin and sink straight into muscle. “I wonder…if your c**k still does that little bend to the right when you get hard. Didn’t know I noticed that, did you? And I wonder…what it would feel like to have all of you covering all of me so that I can’t move and I can barely breathe except to breathe in you. Sometimes, I just wonder what it would be like to finally kiss you.” A cacophony of alarms and warnings sounded in Weston’s head. But he seemed powerless to do anything about it. He had thought of Mark in that way many times, before and after entering the priesthood. And he didn’t want Mark to stop touching him. It felt so good, and unlike anything he had ever experienced. Nobody had ever touched him with such deliberation. “I’ve…wondered what it would be like if you did kiss me.” It might not have been wise to admit as much, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie to Mark. Mark slowly tilted his head. His gaze dropped from where it had been locked with Weston’s, and it lingered on Weston’s mouth. “Shame for both of us to be left in the dark, don’t you think?” He leaned closer, his hand moving along Weston’s thigh until his fingers grazed the edge of Weston’s growing erection and his lips hovered a breath away. “Can’t count how many times I’ve come, wishing I was with you.” He should be praying. He should be praying to God for strength. He should be praying to God for forgiveness for going as far as they had. It wouldn’t be the first time he had sought forgiveness because of Mark, but it would be the first time his sinful thoughts had crossed into reality. Weston couldn’t think of the words. People had tried to pull him before—being a priest seemed to encourage as many people as it discouraged. Weston had always been able to neatly and politely sidestep their advances. None of them had Mark’s piercing eyes. None of them smelled as good as Mark did in that moment. None of them knew him, could see through him, like Mark. When their lips finally touched, Weston sighed. Mark’s mouth was warm and soft, and at first, he didn’t seem to want anything more than to press his lips to Weston’s. His body flooded with warmth. He cradled the back of Mark’s head with one hand and gripped his shirt with the other. A groan escaped Mark. It wasn’t until the sound died away that he seemed to find the strength to part his lips, to let his tongue slip out and trace along Weston’s, to seek out one corner before sweeping again to the other side. His fingers continued to flex, blunt nails nudging against Weston’s c**k, as he gently massaged the hard line of Weston’s hip. He tried to withstand the coaxing of Mark’s tongue, but he couldn’t do it. He parted his lips, the simple gesture an invitation to deepen the caress. He couldn’t take that back, couldn’t just calmly deny it happened. As Mark deepened the kiss, Wes realized he didn’t want to deny that moment. Weston’s experience was limited, to say the least, but he knew enough to know that Mark’s mouth was amazing. Dizzying. Even after they both had to finally part to pant for air. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for that,” Mark rasped. “Mark…we can’t do that again.” The protest might have sounded stronger if Weston had pushed Mark’s hand away from his thigh, and if Mark’s mouth wasn’t so close to his. Mark licked a path across Weston’s lower lip. “But you want me to.” He licked again, this time tracing along Weston’s trembling upper lip. “And I want to.” His teeth caught the wet corner of Weston’s mouth, just for a second, just long enough to send a jolt straight to Weston’s c**k. “Don’t tell me this isn’t the best thing you’ve ever felt, mate. Because it is for me. I can only think of one thing that might feel better.” It was the best thing he had ever felt, in every sense of the word. This simple contact was almost enough to make him delirious. “What?” The hand that had been teasing along Weston’s arousal curled deliberately over his aching shaft. “Letting me suck you.” Mark’s words sliced through him. But the voice in the back of his head was getting quieter and quieter, easier to ignore, as Mark squeezed him. It hurt, having Mark touch him like this, but it wasn’t like any sort of pain he had ever experienced before. All he could think about was Mark’s wet, hot mouth closing around his c**k. Denying Mark now seemed like a physical impossibility. Weston knew he should try. This wasn’t a thoughtless sin of omission, or an accident, or a mistake. Booze wasn’t the culprit. Not for the first time, he felt bereft of the guiding spirit. He felt bereft of everything except the lust licking through his veins. And the truth. The weight of the truth forced his mouth open. “I…want that.” The slow curve of Mark’s lips was matched only by the delighted gleam in his eyes. “Let’s do this properly, then.” His hand snaked around Weston’s waist, pulling him upright at the same time he stood up. It aligned their bodies, and though Weston had a good five inches on Mark, there was no mistaking the press of his erection against Weston’s thigh. “Not on the couch like a couple of teenagers. In your room.” Weston was pretty sure he had never been so aroused in his life. Everything in him was tight, even his throat. He could only nod, and let Mark lead him into his modest bedroom. The bed was narrow, and Weston doubted it could fit two people comfortably, though that hardly seemed to matter now. He bypassed the light switch on the wall. Mark didn’t. His whole life was laid bare to Mark’s inquisitive gaze. Not that there was much to see, which seemed more damning than anything Mark could have found. Weston wanted to protest—it felt like they should do this in the dark—but the words were silenced when Mark claimed his mouth again and his hands went to Weston’s zipper. The metal teeth scraped down the entire length of his c**k. There wasn’t even time to truly savor the growing hunger in Mark’s kiss before a strong, hot hand reached into his briefs and fisted his erection. Weston stumbled backward from the sudden shock, and Mark pinned him to the closed door, keeping him upright as he continued to devour him. Weston did not move for several long seconds. He didn’t know how. It was easier to remain still, pliant, passive. Instinct took over when his brain refused to operate, and he thrust into Mark’s hand, his body seeking out more warmth, more friction, more everything. Mark broke away from Weston’s lips, his mouth eager and hungry on Weston’s jaw, his neck, his throat. Weston smoothed his hands down Mark’s back, pulling him closer as each lick, nibble and kiss sent sparks through his body. Mark’s hand never stopped moving as he sank to his knees. From his new angle, all Weston could see was Mark’s blond hair, the long slope of his nose, then the distinct way his lips parted as Mark angled Weston’s c**k farther away from his body. “There’s the c**k I’ve been dreaming about,” he murmured. His tongue flicked out and caught the drop of pre-come gathering at the slit, and both of them sighed at the same time. “Oh, bloody hell, Wes. You taste even better than I thought you would.” Weston smoothed his fingers through Mark’s hair, desperate to touch him, but unsure how. He had gone his entire life without ever being in this position, and now he needed to turn himself over, follow Mark’s lead without question. He had dedicated his life to submission, but it had never felt more real than this moment. The second Mark wrapped his lips around the head of his c**k, Weston’s knees nearly buckled. The air rushed out of his lungs, carrying several words with it. “Oh, please…Mark…oh…God…” Mark glanced up, a familiar twinkle in his eye. It was the same look he used to get when they were up to a spot of no good, when both of them knew it might be better to just chuck it in and call it a night. Deliberately, he sucked down the shaft, not slowing, not hesitating, not stopping even when Weston felt the tip push against the back of Mark’s throat. It opened almost immediately, and the next thing he felt was the brush of Mark’s chin against his balls. Weston had never felt anything like Mark’s mouth. He never even knew anything could feel like Mark’s mouth. When he swallowed, his throat squeezed around Weston’s sensitive head, and it was almost enough to make him cry out. He already felt like he was standing right on the edge of unbelievable pleasure, but when Mark began to move, began to slide his lips up and down his shaft, everything spun out of control. His fingers tightened against Mark’s skull, molding his hand into the curvature in a desperate attempt to hold onto something as everything else careened this way and that. How it could be possible, Wes didn’t know, but with each pass along his c**k, from the tip to his balls, Mark’s mouth tightened until it felt like the suction would make his head explode. The graze of fingernails between his thighs, stroking the soft skin behind his sac, did him in. Wes clutched at Mark, his hips jerking as he instinctively forced his friend to take in his whole length one more time. His skin scorched as the rest of him erupted, and the squeeze of Mark’s throat as he drank down every shot of come only intensified it. Weston was trembling by the time Mark pulled his mouth away, and he was startled to see his c**k was still hard. He had jerked himself off before—usually it was a fevered attempt soaked with guilt. Like if he could do it fast enough, it didn’t count. Those orgasms were always weak, a tired relief more than anything. Nothing that could prepare him for this, for the way he felt now. Mark curled a hand around the base of Weston’s c**k, drawing lazy circles over the wet tip with his tongue. “I think I could do that all night.” Wes thought he could let him. But they could do more. More than just standing against the wall with his pants around his ankles. He wanted that too. He could admit that much to himself. “I think…we should try for the bed again.” Mark let him go, dragging his hot palms over the twitching muscles of Weston’s stomach as he slowly straightened. His irises had been devoured in black, and his breath quickened enough to be hot and heavy against Weston’s neck. But it was the hunger that gleamed in the depths, the need that kept him pinned to the wall, that left him speechless. “I get in that bed, and there won’t be any kicking me out tonight,” Mark warned. “But I promise you, Wes. It’ll be the best bloody night of your life.” Weston appreciated that Mark was still giving him the chance to end this before it went any further. His orgasm hadn’t dampened his desire. If anything, it was sharper now, more demanding. He wasn’t perfect. He was mere flesh and blood, prone to mistakes. His catalogue of sins flashed through his mind, great and small. He had done many things he hadn’t been proud of. He had lied to his parents, he had taken the Lord’s name in vain, and some days he was crippled with envy over a life he could never have. He had been spiteful and petty. He had been thoughtless. He knew about mistakes. This didn’t feel like a mistake. He didn’t know what it felt like, exactly, but it didn’t feel wrong. Not anymore. This time he instigated the kiss, drawing Mark closer even as he shuffled to the bed. Mark wrapped his arms around Weston’s back the second before they toppled onto the mattress, legs tangled for the few moments it took Wes to kick off his pants. Mark’s hands traced over the muscles, down his spine until they cupped Weston’s ass, grinding their groins together with a desperation that had been missing in their earlier groping. Not once did their mouths part. Each time Wes thought he would need to gasp for air, Mark would tilt his lips at a slightly different angle, affording just the faintest of cracks for breath to rush into his lungs. It left no doubts as to what he wanted. It only cemented what Wes did. Weston tore at Mark’s shirt, desperate to push it out of his way. Mark’s muscles twitched as soon as Wes touched his bare skin, and a thrill raced from his fingertips to the base of his spine. He had seen Mark in various states of undress over the years. He had never been a shy or modest person. Weston had always forced himself to be satisfied with casual, friendly gestures—a tap on the back, a handshake, a steadying arm around his narrow shoulders. He had been tempted to prolong the contact a few times. Now he could touch as much as he wanted. Weston rolled without breaking the kiss until Mark was settled on top of him, and he could free him of his clothes without hindrance. The first touch of his trembling fingers on Mark’s c**k made both of them jump. “You see what you do to me?” Mark propped himself up on his knuckles, powerful biceps taut, and rocked his hips back and forth so that he left a slick trail of pre-come along Weston’s stomach. “You’ve got no idea how much I’m holding back from just pounding into you, Wes.” It took a moment for Weston to find his voice, and when he did, the words were hoarse. “Don’t hold back. We might…I don’t know if this can happen again. So don’t hold yourself back.” For a moment, Mark’s eyes darkened, but almost as quickly as it occurred, the familiar spark returned. The wicked smile that had led several men astray trained on Wes now, Mark’s intent clear. “You want me to bury my c**k in you, is that it?” Mark tilted his body even more, allowing the wet tip to drag down Weston’s shaft. At the base, he shifted upward again, keeping the friction slow and even. “I don’t hold back, and you’re going to be screaming my name.” Weston had no idea what it would feel like to be f****d, and a part of him was more than a little worried that it would hurt. He didn’t care. He wanted it. His whole body wanted it. He wanted to fold his arms and legs around Mark and let the other man fill him. He nodded. “Yes. That’s what I want.” Without lowering his chest again, Mark bowed his head to seek out Weston’s mouth. His teeth caught the lower lip, and he sucked at it as their c***s continued to rub against each other. “Turnabout’s fair play,” he whispered. “If all I get is tonight, I want you in me too. I won’t have to wonder anymore what you feel like smothering me into a bed, then.” Weston tried to imagine what it would be like to do exactly what Mark was suggesting…demanding. Maybe it would be like his mouth, except tighter and hotter, and Mark’s whole body would be flexing beneath his, rising to meet him, holding him. The two of them joined, sharing the same passion and ecstasy. Sharing everything between their bodies. The sort of union that shouldn’t have been possible for him. The sort of union he should not have needed. Or wanted. The sort of union he had always known was possible with his best friend. “Anything you want.” Mark stilled. Weston tore his attention away from the succulent mouth that was now depriving him of kisses to see Mark’s eyes boring into his. “No.” His voice was surprisingly firm. “Anything we want. I’m not just taking here, Wes. I won’t do that. Not to you.” Weston ran his knuckles over Mark’s cheek. “I know. I just meant that tonight…I want what you want.” A groan escaped before Mark’s mouth came crashing back down. This time, he didn’t bother with niceties such as nibbling. He pushed straight past Weston’s nonexistent defenses, his tongue hot and hungry as he reached between their bodies and fisted their c***s together. Weston closed his eyes at the new pressure around his shaft. Mark’s c**k was hot and smooth and hard. He wanted to taste it, the way Mark had tasted him. But that could wait until later. For now, he couldn’t think of anything except Mark’s demanding caress, and the sharp shards of desire piercing him each time Mark stroked their shafts. Gradually, Mark’s lips slid sideways, tasting the corner of his mouth, his jaw, biting at his neck. He had to let go of their c***s as he moved lower and lower, and Weston’s thundering heart beat even harder the closer Mark got to his c**k. He fully expected to feel that warm suction around the tip again; he even thrust his hips up a little in anticipation when Mark licked a path along his side. Disappointment arced through him when Mark bypassed his erection completely. Instead, he felt a hot, wet glide down the seam where leg met hip. Clutching the sheets at his side, he spread his legs a little farther, giving Mark room, only to gasp out loud when he sucked Weston’s tender balls into his mouth. Weston didn’t know what to do with his hands. He gripped the bed. He clutched them at his side. He covered his face. He reached for Mark, running his fingers through his short hair, caressing his cheek as he rolled his tongue around Weston’s balls. Occasionally, he would have a flash of guilt, or a moment of panic, but before real understanding could penetrate the fog around his mind, the suction around his sac would increase. Soft sighs fluttered across Weston’s c**k. Then he felt the firm flex of Mark’s fingers as he gripped his thighs, pushing them up, apart, until his heels were flat on the bed and his ass felt uncomfortably open. Nobody had ever exposed him like this, in spite of dark dreams he pretended he hadn’t had once dawn broke. When Mark finally let his balls go, the tip of his tongue tickling over his perineum, Weston clenched instinctively. “Relax,” Mark breathed. “I’m going to make this so good for you, Wes. I won’t make it hurt until you beg me to.” “Okay. Okay.” He concentrated on doing what Mark instructed, unclenching his muscles and easing back against the mattress. Mark seemed content to focus on the small, sensitive patch of skin until Weston stopped twitching and jerking in response. Once he became accustomed to the pressure and rough texture of Mark’s tongue, Mark moved again. Weston moaned and writhed at the first swipe of the flat of his tongue over his tight hole. “Oh, yeah…” The words sank into him as much as they drifted up to his ears, and Mark tightened his fingers around Weston’s legs, pushing Wes a little wider. Another lick followed, enough to make his muscles feel like water, while the next followed a circular path, tracing the circumference as Mark moaned in delight. Mark moved his tongue in the same circular motion, over and over and over. Weston’s body throbbed, and he lifted his hips off the bed, pushing against Mark’s mouth. Mark moaned again, his grip almost bruising. The second time Wes shifted against Mark’s mouth, he thrust the tip of his tongue into Weston’s body. Weston squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the ceiling and concentrating entirely on the sensations rolling through him. The barest hint of teeth scraped across Weston’s sensitive flesh as Mark rolled his tongue inside the tight passage. Wes felt every movement, every flutter, every breath, and when Mark pulled out, he almost grabbed his neck to yank Mark back. More, he wanted to say. It was as if Mark read his mind, because his mouth returned, this time his tongue sinking in even deeper. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. The words thrummed in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat. His c**k jerked with each stroke of Mark’s tongue. He didn’t know how long Mark could keep this up, but Weston thought he could happily stay under Mark’s mouth for the rest of the night. Every inch of his body was so sensitive, and he thought Mark would have him screaming before long. He didn’t know how he would be able to tolerate Mark’s c**k when his tongue was enough to make his head spin. His eyes flew open when Mark’s weight vanished. Weston looked down the bed to see Mark sitting back on his heels, twisted to grab his jeans where they’d landed on the floor. He pulled something out of the pocket, then tossed them back, straightening as he dropped a small foil packet onto the sheets. The world narrowed down to Mark’s blunt hands and what he still held. A small tube. As Wes watched, Mark opened it and squeezed something clear and shiny onto his fingers. “Has anybody ever f****d you before?” Of course not. It’s a sin. It had always been a sin. Sodomy. An ugly word. Even if he thought about it occasionally. Even if he wondered about it. Weston shook his head. Mark didn’t look away as he set aside the tube. “Then I’ll make sure you’re more than ready for me.” His slick fingers took the place his tongue had at Weston’s ass, tracing around the clenching muscle with the same, deliberate rhythm. “That way, the screaming’ll only happen because it feels so bloody good.” Weston nodded, not trusting his voice. The sudden pressure of Mark’s finger pushing into his tight body stalled his breath. It was uncomfortable at first, and Weston clenched, resisting the invasion. Mark responded by reaching for Weston’s c**k, smoothing his palm up and down the shaft until Weston began to relax again. He pushed his finger up to his third knuckle then paused as Wes fluttered around him. “You know what kills me?” Mark’s voice sounded as rough as Weston’s felt. “Thinking about what this is going to feel like when it’s my c**k in you instead.” A second finger joined the first. Again, Weston tried to resist the intrusion, but Mark waited until Wes relaxed. Weston was very close to utter incoherence, but he couldn’t help but be struck by Mark’s patience. Mark was not a patient man. Life never seemed to happen fast enough for him—which, no doubt, was why he had opted to move to London. Despite the obvious desire in his voice, Mark didn’t give any indication of how difficult it was to work slowly. “This will be easier for you if you’re on your hands and knees.” A third finger joined the two, twisting together as he pushed them past the tight muscle. The nails scraped across the inner walls, and Wes clamped down around the knuckles, holding Mark motionless for long seconds. “But I’d rather see your face, Wes. I don’t want you to think I’m just shagging you because I’ve wanted you for so long.” It took a few seconds for Mark’s words to untangle themselves in his mind. “Why are you shagging me, then?” Though he held Mark’s fingers tight inside his ass, Mark still stroked along the walls. His gaze burned when it locked with Weston’s, and any taunting had vanished from his sensual mouth. “You’re the best mate I’ve ever had,” he said softly. “Last thing I ever want is for you not to know how important you are to me.” “Mark…” He cupped the back of Mark’s head and drew him down to his mouth. Weston controlled the kiss, refusing to let it grow out of control with passion. He wanted the kiss to be slow and thorough. Mark didn’t try to wrest control from him. He let Weston caress him with his mouth until they were both breathless. “I think I’m ready for you now.” He felt empty when Mark pulled his fingers out, and cold when Mark sat back. The separation was temporary, though, as Mark ripped open the wrapper and rolled the condom quickly down his shaft. He was back over Wes in a flash, his chest rubbing against his, their mouths fused together, as he dragged the tip of his c**k down Weston. His heart leapt into his throat when he felt Mark’s c**k nudge against his hole. It was thicker than the fingers had been, much thicker, and he tightened on reflex when Mark pushed closer. “Don’t,” Mark breathed against his mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” Weston believed Mark. He trusted him. More than that, he wanted him. Now that Mark was so close, it seemed like he could feel the other man through his whole body, down to his bones. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to relax. As soon as Mark felt the shift in his body, he eased forward again. The blunt tip pressed past Weston’s slick muscle, and his nerves seemed to flare to life, his skin and flesh too hot. Instead of resisting, he entwined his legs around Mark’s, encouraging more. It burned as Mark pushed the first inch of his thick c**k into Weston’s ass, but the second Wes thought it was painful, Mark stopped, always without being told, as if he felt the effects through the contact of their skin. He held that position as he devoured Weston’s mouth, and as soon as Wes flexed his legs, Mark thrust a little bit more. They repeated this pattern—in, hold, drown in delicious kisses, relax—until it felt like something gave inside Wes. He gasped against Mark’s lips, and in the next breath, felt the soft slap of balls against his flesh. Weston had never been this close to another person, this connected with another body. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn’t want to look away from Mark’s face. He touched Mark everywhere he could reach, his fingers dancing over Mark’s shoulders, down his back, on his chest, neck, face. Mark eased back slowly then rocked forward again. Each inch was startling and exquisite. Mark turned his head and caught Weston’s hand, sinking his teeth into the fleshy part of his palm. Sharp lust shot through Weston’s veins, the world a blur around them. His c**k throbbed between their bodies, but he resisted the urge to reach down and grasp it. He couldn’t anyway. He was trapped by Mark’s mouth, hands, legs, all weighing him down as they set a slow, head-spinning rhythm. It was so easy to follow Mark’s lead. The rhythm he set seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Mark’s muscles flexed with each push of his hips, and Weston didn’t think Mark could touch his body enough. Ever. The realization almost made him panic. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. This couldn’t happen again. But the thought of denying Mark tore at him. “Mark…oh, Mark…my God…” “Ssshhh…” He soothed Weston’s words with another kiss, this one slow to counter the tempo of their snapping hips. Mark might have claimed to want to hear Weston scream, but he seemed content swallowing his breath until his lungs burned and his ears pounded. Every time he pulled back and Weston’s lips would tighten with more pleas, Mark returned to kiss them away, until all that remained was the sensation of his c**k dragging along hard flesh, his ass quivering as Mark filled him over and over again. One of Weston’s hands went down Mark’s body to grip his ass. The other went to Mark’s chest, his fingertips scraping across his n****e, drawing a sharp hiss from Mark. He dug his nails into Mark’s hard muscles, silently spurring him to move a little harder, a little faster. He already thought he could fly apart from the weight and pressure of Mark’s c**k buried deep in his body. His pleas turned into louder and louder moans against Mark’s mouth. “Like that?” Finally, Mark was breaking his silence. His tongue ran over his swollen mouth as he gazed down at Wes, but his body never broke its rhythm. “Tell me you love this, Wes.” “Yes.” The barest whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his dry throat. “I love this…love being with you like this.” The next stroke was harder, splitting him open. The one after that, harder still. “We have the whole night, yeah?” “Yes.” He couldn’t make Mark leave. “All night.” “So…” Thick lashes ducked, masking emotion that came through in his words. “You can be mine for the next few hours?” No. I’ve got obligations. I took vows. I can’t be anybody’s, Mark. Mark buried himself in Weston with another hard thrust, and the protest was driven from his mind. “Yes. Yours for a few hours.” It seemed to be the only concession Mark needed. An arm slipped beneath Weston’s shoulders, holding them together, as his hand found the aching length of Weston’s c**k. He began stroking him with the same intense rhythm he ploughed into his ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin oddly comforting. “Show you,” Mark murmured in between kisses. It was a fragment of a thought, that much was clear, but that was going to be all Mark allowed, apparently. “So good.” So good. So wrong, and he knew it. But it was so good. He wrapped his arms around Mark and buried his face in his neck. Wes took a deep breath, detecting the smell of sweat and leather, smoke, sharp aftershave, peppermint candy. He sampled Mark’s skin with the tip of his tongue, wondering if he would taste the way he smelled. Wondering if he could brand the smell and taste of him to his memory permanently. Mark moved faster, stroked Weston harder. His mind emptied of everything except the pleasure racing through him. Mark’s fingers were so hard around his c**k, and it only took one soft squeeze, a flexing of his hand, to pull the orgasm from him. He shouted into Mark’s skin, his come warm and sticky on his stomach as Mark continued to fist his length. “That’s it,” Mark coaxed. He was breathless, panting, each word harsh where it landed on Weston’s skin. “Feel so f*****g good. Don’t want to stop, don’t want, don’t want…” It ended in a sharp groan as Mark slammed into his ass, throwing his head back as the muscles stood out in his neck. The hand on Weston’s c**k squeezed painfully, milking the last few drops of fluid, and he felt the thick length inside him jerk as Mark shot into the condom. Mark was quivering by the time he began to relax. The mouth that bent to meet Weston’s was even more so. Weston couldn’t stand even an inch separating them, so he kept his arms and legs tight around Mark’s body. Mark didn’t seem in any hurry to move away from him. They kissed until he was breathless again. Gradually, Mark eased out of Weston’s tender ass, and Wes felt oddly empty. Cut off. Now that he knew how close he could be to somebody, he didn’t want to lose the connection. Mark managed to break the hold Wes had on him and sat up long enough to peel the condom away and toss it in the nearby bin. He didn’t waste any time in settling on the bed beside Wes again, wrapping himself around Weston’s body. He felt thick. And tired. He didn’t want to lose a second with Mark, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He struggled against the pull of sleep, but Mark kept running his fingers through his hair in a slow, hypnotizing gesture. He pressed his lips to Weston’s forehead, as though giving him permission to finally give in to exhaustion.