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“Can I kiss you?”
Peach ran his tongue over lips that had been kissed for the last five minutes and cracked his neck because kissing for five minutes up against the unforgiving oak of Kian’s headboard wasn’t exactly comfortable. He should have said something. He could have said something, but if he had said something, the bed likely would have been removed from the room for having dared to give Peach a crick in the neck before Peach could finish his sentence.
“You’ve been kissing me.”
Peach took matters into his own hands, sliding down the headboard until neck met pillows, silk pajamas on high thread count sheets making it easy enough to slip through Kian’s fingers and land flat on his back. Kian’s fingers followed, chasing after Peach until there were two thumbs once more on his hips, four fingertips curling around his waist, pressing in every so slightly, just enough that Peach knew that they were there. Kian was like that, always pressing in, making sure that Peach knew he was there, but never hard enough to bruise.
Kian smiled. There was danger for Peach in the curl of it. He knew what Kian looked like when he thought he was being very clever, when he had something in mind. He knew that smile. The sneaky one, the one with intent.
“I’ve been kissing you here,” Kian said, kissing the corner of Peach’s mouth, pretty white teeth disappearing for the five seconds it took to make his point, only to reappear again when Kian put his great big, I have a great idea, grin on Peach’s cheek and murmured, “But there are other places I want to kiss you, too.”
Peach could imagine what he was thinking. After all this time, he could almost always imagine what it was that Kian was thinking when it came to him, now that he let himself see it, let himself imagine it. Kian’s imagination was more vivid, wild and rich, but Peach knew what it was to capture a scene and remember it. The memory of the last time was a little blurred around the edges because it had been his first time, on his hands and knees in his cramped little bed at home, Kian making noises that made no sense because he was the one doing all of the work, doing all of the giving while Peach moaned into a pillow.
This bed was bigger. Peach knew what to expect, at least a little. Kian wanted to kiss him. Kian wanted to get between his legs and spread him open and kiss him, first with lips and then with tongue, eating him up. Kian probably wanted to fuck him, too, to fuck him and then hold him, but that Kian would only do what Peach wanted, what he felt he could take.
It had been a long day. He was tired. His neck still ached. But Kian was touching him with fingers that were calloused from the guns he’d been forced to carry since he was too young and Kian was smiling at him, his gaze so warm and so affectionate that Peach still marveled that Kian had come out of it all with a heart so soft.
“Your parents are here,” Peach said, a half-hearted protest when his legs were already falling apart, making room for the weight of Kian’s great ideas, saying yes without saying it at all because he liked to say yes to Kian, had never really been very good at telling him much of a no.
“The perks of having a bigger house,” Kian murmured, thumbs drifting from hip bones to the top of Peach’s pajama pants and pulling down. “No one can hear us in the other wing.” Peach sighed. Kian’s smile was hot on his throat. Kian’s palm dragged down over his crotch. “You can make all the noise you want, with me you never need to hold back.”
“You’re the noisy one,” Peach said, pushing up on his elbows so he could watch Kian take off his shirt, so he could make enough room for Kian to take off his pants. “You’re the one who never holds back.”
Both landed on the floor. He knew that Kian’s pants would end up there, too, at some point before their time was over. They would be naked in bed. And on the floor would be a mess of matching silk.
“Turn over for me,” Kian said, his smile no less wicked. Peach turned over, wishing that he had asked if they could turn off the lights so he wouldn’t have to see how Kian looked at him like he was something so delicious. “I’ll try harder this time, Lookpeach.” Kian kissed him between the shoulderblades. Peach shivered. At the touch, at the idea of Kian trying harder, when he already always did more than enough. “I’ll make it so you can’t hold back.”
“I’m sure you will,” Peach said, a tease that was true because Kian had always made it so he couldn’t hold back. Not from friendship, not from a kiss on a boat in the middle of the sea, not from dating, not from falling in love. He didn’t see why this would be any different, why he wouldn’t inevitably end up bringing down the wood-paneled walls of Kian’s ostentatious bedroom if that’s where Kian wanted this to go.
“So, may I?” Kian’s lips moved down Peach’s spine, coming to a stop at the small of his back. “May I kiss you?”
The ask was warm and a little wet, words whispered into Peach’s skin, traced there with a tongue that he knew was going to be inside of him before long. Peach nodded. One day, he would say it out loud. He’d ask for Kian to eat him up, if only to see the way that Kian’s ears turned red whenever Peach turned the tables on him and flirted first, wanted more, loved harder.
Kian said something that sounded like thank you, as if Peach was doing him some sort of kindness when Peach thought that he was probably the one getting the most out of this deal.
Peach put his forehead on this arm and closed his eyes as Kian pushed up his hips. He felt breath on his thighs. It tickled. Kian touched him gently with his roughed up fingers. The first kiss was still a shock, still something he felt like he should move away from instead of push into, Kian holding firm and laughing a little when Peach squirmed. He could feel the laughter. On him, almost in him, the reverberations of a different kind of pleasure. Peach scolded him, even though he could hear the breathiness in the way he said Kian’s name, giving him away.
Kian stopped laughing. He touched Peach with his tongue instead, dragging the tip of it around his rim and then pressing it down against his hole. It was hard to tease, Peach thought, when a mouth was too busy sucking and kissing. But it was easy enough to blush. Peach’s face was warm within the dark hollow of his arms, his moans kept to himself even though he knew that Kian would like to hear them, that he would want to know it felt for Peach to be tongue-fucked and eaten out.
Peach turned his cheek. Kian wanted to hear it. Peach wanted to give him what he wanted, even if it was still hard to not feel shy when this was only the second time he’d been rimmed. Learning to fight, learning how to get fucked, he could do it all if Kian was the one taking him through it.
It felt good. Better than he would have imagined, better than he did imagine the few times he let himself think about what it would be like to sleep with a man. He had assumed it would be like this, that he would be the one to receive care and attention, the one to take everything Kian wanted to give. He hadn’t known he would like it as much as he did, enough to push back on Kian’s smiling mouth running up and down his crack, the curl of tongue just inside when Kian pulled down on his rim. He lacked the imagination to know how loud he could get, the sounds he could make when Kian sucked his bottom lip, his tongue, his cock, his hole.
Kian kissed him again. Kissed him again with tongue, pressing down on his rim, stretching it out. Peach moaned, understated still compared to the kind of noises that came out of Kian when Peach put his tongue on Kian’s cock, or when Peach did much of anything at all, but it was still enough. Enough that Kian stopped, looked at Peach from behind thighs that were a little bit shaky and gave him the eyes, the gaze that Peach first saw through a camera lens and tried not to think was for him.
He knew now. Kian had given away his beautiful eyes, signed away that gaze the same way he did everything else, without a second thought, as if it was easy to love. As if Peach was easy to love.
Kian smiled. Kian touched him, pressed his fingertip inside the place he’d made wet. Peach sighed, eyes closing because he had to concentrate, to tell his body to relax and let it in. First a tongue, the fingers, then Kian himself.
“Let me see you,” Kian murmured, speaking into Peach’s skin again, moving his words all over Peach’s ass. Kian bit down softly. Peach let him hear instead, a little moan to go with a little mark, a new way for Kian to leave his name all over Peach’s body. Kian kissed where he’d bitten and begged. “I want to see you.”
Peach considered telling Kian that he already had a view that no one else ever could, sitting behind Peach’s upturned bottom, between the spread of his thighs. He couldn’t imagine it was that beautiful, worth the kind of praise and poetry that Kian had heaped on him the first time, despite the fact that it had been dark in his little bedroom, but Kian’s imagination was precious to Peach, so he let Kian believe what he would about Peach’s thighs, his waist, his hole.
“You want to hear me, you want to see me,” Peach said, giving in and opening his eyes as Kian held his hip with one hand and went for the bedside table with the other. He hadn’t asked yet, but Peach knew he would. Kian would ask. Peach would let him take his liberties. “What else do you want?”
“To feel you.”
Kian’s expression was soft. His body was not. Peach could feel it. The cut of his muscles, the jut of his cock when Kian held him from behind, one arm around his chest, the other braced on the bed. Peach had barely touched him since Kian put him on his hands and knees, but maybe it was enough, the sounds Peach made to get a man like Kian hard and sticky wet at the tip. He wanted to touch him. Put his hands on Kian’s chest, wrap his fingers around Kian’s dick and learn how he liked to be stroked, slide down his body and continue to test how much he could take into his throat.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the night after that. There was time and if there wasn’t time, Peach knew all he needed to do was breathe a word and time would be made because Kian was easy for him like that.
“Can I feel you?”
Kian asked, the way Peach knew he would, lips on Peach’s ear. Peach nodded, easy for Kian like that. He wanted to be fucked, he wanted to be felt. Kian murmured something to him that sounded like a pet name from thirty years ago, a term of endearment from one of his mother’s soap operas, something awfully cutesy and close to my love.
Kian kissed the back of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone and splayed his hand over Peach’s heart, cuddling him before the sex had even begun.
Peach was already wet from Kian’s tongue, from what was left of the spit that had to dry and disappear. Kian was careful with him, though, always. His thighs were slick with lube by the time Kian came back to him from the bathroom, his mouth clean, his gaze strangely unsure. Peach reached for him, asked what was wrong and hoped that it wasn’t anything he’d done, the way he’d tasted, the way he’d rubbed his dick against the sheets like a teenager who couldn’t totally control the grind of his hips.
“I don’t know which way I want you,” Kian said, sighing as if the weight of the world was truly on his shoulders. “Like you are now?” Kian put his hand on Peach’s back, thumb brushing over the barely there imprint of his teeth on Peach’s left ass cheek. “On your side so that I can cradle you in my arms?” Peach shrugged. They had yet to do it like that, long legs tangled up and Kian pressed in deep. Kian sighed again, dramatic and sweet. “I could feel your heartbeat, but I wouldn’t be able to look into your eyes as we make love and you might not know how it feels for me to be inside of you –”
“Ahh.” Peach let go of his worry, replacing it with a familiar fond exasperation. “Get a grip, Kian.” Peach got a grip on Kian’s hand and pulled him down, choosing for them, choosing what he knew mattered most to the man who wanted to see him, hear him and feel him. “Whatever we don’t do tonight, we can do tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Ah, You’re so ravenous for me, my Lookpeach.”
Peach hoped that Kian enjoyed his eyeroll from such a close distance, their faces together now, Kian’s soap opera expression melting into the fondness that still caught Peach off-guard. He spread his legs, bent his knees so they could fit beneath the curl of Kian’s hands and let himself be bent in two, safe in the splay of Kian’s fingers, in the clinginess of Kian’s kiss.
“Breathe,” Kian whispered to him. Peach breathed, his lungs moving against Kian’s chest, their bodies rising and falling together. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
Peach nodded. Kian would do the rest, even if Peach tried to do his own part, he knew that tonight he wouldn’t be doing more than this, because Kian knew he was tired, because Kian was feeling possessive and proud. It was fine. He had learned that there was value in accepting care, in letting someone do some of the hard work when he was worn out or when he didn’t know the way forward.
Also, Kian was good in bed, even if he stared too much when Peach would have liked to look away, begging for Peach to keep his eyes open when Peach was trying to convince his body to relax and let Kian put his cock inside. Kian’s arms shook with the effort it took not to go too fast, to let Peach get past the stretch of the first few inches. It was good. The pressure, the fullness. The unexpectedness of it all.
Kian kissed his forehead, the corner of his eye, the ridge of his cheek. The same places he’d touched before he kissed Peach until his neck ached and his dick was hard in his silly silk pajama pants. Peach put his arms around Kian’s shoulders, grazed his fingers over the scar that an unasked for past had left and answered yes when Kian asked:
“Can I move?”
Kian fucked the way he loved, once he had the yes he wanted. Intensely, affectionately, a little bit over the top. The pace was fast, but the thrusts were gentle, somehow managing to straddle the line between too much and just enough. He whispered in Peach’s ear, a laundry list of filth and sweetness. The tightness of Peach’s body, how beautiful Peach was in his bed, how good he sounded getting off on Kian’s cock stretching him out and breaking him in, how much he loved Peach, how he was the one who was ravenous, his appetite for Peach a bottomless pit.
Peach said nothing because he was getting off on Kian’s cock stretching him out and breaking him in, introducing him to new sensations that made his back bow and his dick leak onto Kian’s stomach. He couldn’t tell Kian to be quiet because that would make him a hypocrite, because he was moaning, because he couldn’t hold back, not even when Kian kissed him. He fed Kian those moans, the ones he was working so hard to get, made him swallow it all along with his litany of praise and pretty words, until they were both wordless. Kian’s hips snapped, Peach put a hand on himself only to have it slapped away because of course Kian would want to do this, too – fuck Peach and stroke Peach and kiss Peach and whine for Peach to look at him so that they could come together.
Kian always wanted so much. Peach put his arm over his head and looked at Kian through his lashes, doing the best that he could to look. Kian wanted so much, but he always gave more than he took, excessive in his desires, more than a little extra in his sweet recompense.
“Okay,” Peach murmured, bearing down on Kian, pushing up into the hand that was curled around his cock. He wanted to let Kian have this much when there was so little of value that Peach could really give. “I’ll come with you.”
Kian kissed him, without asking, because there was no need to ask when Kian was flush against him and he could feel him everywhere, inside and out. Peach closed his eyes because he was being kissed and he knew that Kian had done that for him, too, kissed him so that he could come, because it was what Peach needed.
When he opened his eyes again, Kian’s stomach was covered with his come and Kian’s come was inside of him, hot and raw, both of them sticky with it. Kian’s lips were warm against his throat, his nose pressed against the jump of Peach’s pulse, his heart working overtime to keep up with the way Kian fucked, the way he loved.
Peach put his fingers in Kian’s hair, stroked something of Kian’s for the first time all night, and tried to catch up, to catch his breath. Kian turned his cheek. Peach stroked that, too. Stroked his thumb down the bridge of his nose, the slope of a pretty upper lip that made up half of his favorite smile in the world. Kian kissed that thumb, softly, making eyes at Peach like Peach was a gift. Peach wondered what Kian saw when he looked at him, what Peach’s gaze looked like when he looked at someone he loved.
Peach smiled. Maybe he would ask Kian one day. Ask and listen to the ensuing poetics, or ask and hand over the camera, trusting Kian almost as much as he trusted himself to capture what really mattered. But not tonight.
Tonight. Kian was still in him. Still with him, even after they’d both been unwrapped and opened up, presents taken out of the box and still found worth keeping.
“Kian,” Peach said, holding Kian within the palm of his hands, “May I kiss you?”