by Cole McCade
“You’re doing fine,” Summer soothed softly. “You’re okay, Fox. You’re okay.”
He wasn’t okay.
And with a strangled sound he ripped his hands free from Summer’s, turning to claw away.
That had been a mistake, letting Summer go.
Because without those hands to ground him, he was free-floating, surrounded by water and nothing else, his arms sweeping out and hitting nothing but frigid wetness that pushed and pulled at him with the force of his own movements, reflecting it back at him.
He snapped his eyes open.
The railing, the steps, were right there.
And a thousand yards away, when he lurched forward and only went down hard, feet slipping out from beneath him.
The water rushed up to claim him.
Before strong arms wrapped around his waist, hauling him back, and pulling him against the warmth and strength of Summer’s body.
And the cold couldn’t compare to the heat of him, the solidity of him, Summer becoming Fox’s solid earth as Summer wrapped him up tight, held him, walked with him in quick steps to the edge, up, up, and the water was gone and Fox was clinging to Summer, gasping, burying his face against his damp shoulder and struggling to draw in as much air as he could possibly manage in needy heavy gasps.
“You’re safe,” Summer whispered, steady and warm in his ear. “You’re safe, Fox. I’ve got you.”
Fox let out a desperate sound, wrapping his arms around Summer, digging his fingers into his back, holding fast when he couldn’t stand being ripped away, thrust back into that floating nothingness.
He had spent years insulating himself against feeling this kind of fear.
Against feeling anything.
And he couldn’t let himself give in to that awful, cracking feeling again.
“I couldn’t,” he gasped against Summer’s skin. “I... I couldn’t...”
“That’s okay.” Long fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of Fox’s neck, subtle sweet tension grounding him to earth, nearly tugging loose the knot weighing heavy against his scalp. “You don’t have to be ready right now. You just...don’t. It’s okay to have fears you’re not ready to face. It’s okay to take your time. You still tried.” Low words, murmured against his ear, washing over him in sweet-soft waves of quiet, surrounding him in the warmth and vitality Summer exuded like a scent, slipping down inside him with steadying calm. “When you’re ready, Fox...when you’re ready.”
It felt like Summer was saying so much more.
So very much more.
As if he knew...
The thing that frightened Fox the most was Summer himself.
Summer, and the way he made it so very impossible for Fox to stop himself from feeling all these riotous and wondrous and monstrous things—the brightness that made him laugh, the exasperation that masked his affection, the way his entire body drew tight and hot every time Summer stole his daily kiss, sometimes sweet, sometimes searing, sometimes submissive, sometimes so insistently needy.
Because every last one of those feelings whispered that Fox could learn how to be happy again.
But if he dared to claim happiness, to grasp at it with all his heart...
Then it could be torn away from him again in a single crashing instant.
He didn’t know if he could face that ever again.
And he couldn’t think about it right now, couldn’t grapple with the ongoing battle between his yearning...and that dark, ugly thing inside of him that was so convinced he would lose the very thing he reached for with both hands.
As he lifted his head, looking into Summer’s eyes, into their softness, the way they shaded toward darker colors at the center like twilight shading up into night.
“Help me,” he whispered, capturing Summer’s face between his palms, cradling his jaw, leaning into him...and stealing his lips, gasping his plea into that mouth that made him want things no man should want, but that he couldn’t deny. “Help me forget.”
Chapter Ten
Summer shouldn’t have pushed Fox.
That had been the only thing on his mind when he realized Fox was hyperventilating, standing in water up to mid-hip, his boxer-briefs soaking dark against his pale amber skin.
And his chest rising and falling in rapid wheezes, muscles constricting tight against his skin, as he froze in place.
It had taken less than a second for Summer to realize Fox wasn’t with him anymore.
Fox was somewhere else, somewhere dark, trapped inside his own head.
And Summer had done the only thing he could do:
Pulled him out of the water the moment he’d started struggling, panicking, and taken him into his arms as if he could somehow lock out whatever black nightmare had crawled into Fox’s thoughts, and keep him safe.
Maybe he was young, inexperienced; maybe Fox was so much older, so much stronger, hardened by dealing with things Summer couldn’t imagine.
But that was all he wanted, in the end.
To have the strength, the surety, to keep Fox safe.
To make him feel as sheltered, as protected, as Fox made him feel when he pulled Summer close and held him until the panic attacks calmed and he could breathe again.
So Summer held him.
He held him, listened to his breaths calm, stroked his fingers against his scalp, murmured to him—anything he could think of, anything to tell him it was okay.
It was okay to not stare his demons in the face.
Not now, maybe not ever.
Summer...
God, Summer would love him either way, whether he faced his fears or thrust them away forever.
And that was when it hit him, hard as a blow to the solar plexus, punching the breath from him and making his grasp on Fox tighten convulsively.
He...
He loved Fox Iseya.
Not just the idealized figurehead he had made of Fox during his childhood years.
But the very real, very vulnerable, very flawed and yet perfectly beautiful man currently trembling and damp in his arms.
He loved this difficult, strange man of subtle whims and irascible tempers, this quiet creature who tried to be a statue of graven stone but was instead all steel and sharp edges, and every time Summer’s heart bled with the cuts it only filled that much deeper with that slow-growing love he hadn’t even realized was creeping up on him with every day, every kiss that made him hope more and more that Fox could ever...
Could ever feel something for him.
But then Fox was straightening, looking down at him with those glacial silver eyes that suddenly weren’t so cold anymore, weren’t so closed, raw and open and driving into him with breathtaking force as their eyes locked.
As Fox’s long, agile fingers stroked along Summer’s cheeks, cradled his face.
As Fox whispered, “Help me.” Those lips descending, parted, heated. “Help me forget.”
Summer couldn’t be hearing, understanding that right.
But the feeling of Fox’s kiss could never be wrong.
And there was no mistaking the fire of Fox’s mouth on his own, the heat of his body, the pressure and desire and need building up between them as Summer sank into the wildness of Fox’s lips, the plundering desperation that seemed to beg something from him.
Something that he was only too willing to give.
He felt as though he were begging, as he slanted his mouth hotly, eagerly against Fox’s—crying take me, love me, fill me with every moment that their lips crashed together and Fox reminded him how it felt to surrender entirely; to be caught up, swept into the insistent, hungry throb of sensation that made his entire body pulse in a singular dark rhythm of desire every time Fox so much as looked at him.
Charged, perfect, that kiss rocked through him until his body came alive each time Fox�
�s tongue slid into him in intimate suggestion, stroking deep; each time their bodies moved together as slickly as if they were glazed in wet glistening sugar, caging fire inside. The damp sleekness of Fox’s body overwhelmed Summer, steaming against him and jolting him with little erotic rushes of awareness each time he felt flesh to flesh. Heat to heat.
Lust to lust, as the tangled pressure of their bodies grew too taut, too hot to bear, arousal undeniable and his cock desperately straining against his swim trunks.
He let himself be pushed back toward one of the lounge chairs on the side of the pool, Fox’s hands on his waist, Fox’s tongue tracing his lips, Fox’s body so tight against his with nothing between them but the thinnest layers of cloth, Fox’s tall, perfectly sculpted, sinuously elegant body moving hard against Summer’s as he tumbled Summer down to the chair.
Then weight—God, he loved Fox’s weight atop him, loved those moments when Fox lost control and pinned him to the desk or against a wall, loved this moment when his world narrowed down to heat and hardness moving over him with absolute dominance and control, Fox settled between his legs and the wet rasp of cloth to cloth, cock to cock, fire to fire as Summer arched, writhed, surrendered himself to the feeling of Fox crushing him with the caged power writhing under that taut skin, Fox kissing him as though he was the air Fox needed to breathe, desperate and deep and driving hard and hot, mimicking with borderline obscene thrusts of tongue to Summer’s tingling lips until he was gasping, sizzling, seared with the need for more than just this momentary kiss that would tease and flirt and taunt and never give quite enough to sate the dark, heady wanting inside him.
So he clung while he could—moving with Fox as Fox arched and drove his hips against him, grinding hard, leaving him dizzy with wild shocks of friction-burn pleasure and shocking bursts of need that took his breaths away, Summer clutching at Fox’s hips to pull him in deeper, begging with his lips, with needy little bites, asking please, please. He’d never wanted anything like he wanted this: Fox pinning him, Fox claiming him, Fox whispering against his lips.
Whispering his name.
“Summer,” Fox breathed, tracing his upper lip in an erotic rasp of sensation. “Summer.”
“Fox,” Summer answered—then broke off in a moaning, desperate cry as Fox’s hand slipped between them, molded over his swim trunks, cupped his cock in knowing, deft fingers that kneaded in perfect rhythm, just enough pressure to make him burn for more and yet never enough to fully satisfy, leaving Summer’s toes curling, his head tossing side to side and back, thighs aching and clenching against the bulk of Fox’s body as he whimpered, as he pleaded without words, as he thrust himself up into that tormenting hand that was everything he wanted and nothing he needed.
Those silver eyes watched him, fixed, intense, as if Fox could see nothing else...and he gripped Summer tighter through the fabric, molding to his shape, thumb tracing under the head of his cock as Fox breathed, “Do you want me, Summer? All of me?”
Summer stilled, struggling to process those words through pleasure that bordered on pain as fabric teased against hyper-sensitive flesh, struggling not to just give himself over in a writhing mess as he looked up at Fox dazedly with his legs spread and his hips lifting in involuntary little convulsions. Did...did he mean...?
Summer licked his lips, his mouth aching, hungry, and nodded slowly. “I...fuck, I’ve...wanted that for so long, Fox...”
“Have you?” Pale eyes lidded, and Fox dipped two fingers downward between Summer’s legs, stroking over the swell of his balls against the tight fabric and making Summer jerk, catching a sound in the back of his throat, as his cock bucked and surged in response. “We have a problem, then, since we seem to be without adequate lubricant.”
Summer flushed, the heat that roiled through his body seeming to concentrate in his face for a few moments.
And, with shaking fingers, he reached over the side of the chair to where he’d discarded his jeans in a heap, feeling around in the back pocket until he came up with one of several little portable blister packs of lube, holding it up between two fingers sheepishly.
Fox arched a brow, expression going flat. “Have you really been keeping—”
Summer grinned breathlessly. “I always had hope.”
Fox rolled his eyes.
Plucked the lube from Summer’s fingers.
And stole his grin from him with another kiss, a burning thing that tore at Summer’s senses with an onslaught of pleasure—and lifted him up into a near-assault of touch, of taste, of the rush of breath storming between them in urgent swells.
Fox’s hands were everywhere. Stroking at him, teasing over his body, tracing every outline of him and stopping to find the spots that made Summer suck his breaths in, from the peaks of his nipples to the dip of his stomach right below his waist, from his inner thighs to the undersides of his knees, searching out and discovering him. He writhed; he begged, gasping out his cries again and again; he curled and arched and twisted his body into every touch as if Fox had some compulsive power over him, pulling the strings of his need until he felt naked even with his swim trunks on, this consumptive and dizzying pleasure completely bared for Fox, his vulnerability on display each time Fox touched him and made him whine, made him clutch at him, made him whisper Fox’s name, his mouth drying with the rush and sigh of it again and again.
But he nearly lost it when Fox stripped his boxer-briefs down to his thighs, touched his naked cock skin to skin, toyed over it, teased it, stroked it in knowing, feather-light touches that gathered the slick gleam of Summer’s own pre-come against his skin and streaked it over him, making his cock tighten and swell with the near-agonizing sensation of that heated wetness cooling against his skin...
...before Fox cracked the little tube of lube open over his fingers, snapping it in a single brutal grip and coating his hand, thick clear runnels dripping down in loops to splash on Summer’s skin.
Summer hissed as it landed on his cock, even those little licks of sensation too much, hyper-sensitive shocks that punched into his core like the most delicious pain—but it was nothing compared to those lube-slick fingers probing down between his legs, slipping under him, dipping along the cleft of his ass.
Fox pressed one fingertip against Summer’s clenching entrance, the lightest brush of callused skin against tender flesh.
Clamped the other hand against Summer’s throat, fingers pressing in just hard enough to whisper of strength, control, possession, the most perfect pulse of pain against Summer’s skin.
And slid one finger inside him, penetrating him in a slow smooth dip of probing flesh, opening him with an intimacy that made him feel so vulnerable he nearly screamed before Iseya’s first knuckle had even stretched open his pliant inner walls.
Summer sucked in a shallow breath—only for that dominating palm against his throat to stop it, not quite cutting off his air but only leaving him no doubt that he was in Fox’s grasp, at his mercy, writhing underneath him with his thighs spreading so achingly wide of their own volition, baring him while he arched his back and jerked his hips and tossed his head back. Deeper that finger probed, a slow searching glide that touched over every secret place inside Summer with excruciating slowness and attentive strokes of pleasure, while Summer whimpered shamelessly and flinched from every too-raw burst of touch; it was too good, too fucking good to care about pride, and all that much better because it was Fox.
Fox sliding that long finger into him, searching ever deeper. Fox adding a second finger, stretching him, twisting them, plunging in and out in a rhythm that made Summer keen with the unbearable pleasure of it; with the borderline invasive feeling of being filled, his flesh played in malleable caresses, his entire body responding with quivers so deep he felt them vibrating in his gut.
Fox watching Summer with devouring eyes that seemed to see nothing else.
Fox stroking over and gripping his throat with a grasp
that made a delicious thrill tighten in the pit of Summer’s stomach—sending ripples throughout him that only clenched his inner muscles against Fox’s fingers, imprinting the shapes of Fox’s knuckles from within in little bursts of pleasure, holding on as if Summer could pull him deeper inside his body to touch every forbidden heat inside him.
Fox wanting him.
And that was all Summer needed.
Yet he craved more, more...and Fox gave him more. A third finger. A fourth. And then...
God.
The head of his cock pressing against Summer, thick, hot, seeming to jerk and buck and twitch with a life of its own, promising searing pleasure, every sharp detail of its flared shape teasing against him until an emptiness pulsed inside him in the outline of that hard, surging flesh, a craving that demanded to feel that heat sliding inside him, teaching him what it meant to be so full with someone else he thought it could destroy him.
Fox hovered over Summer, looking down at him with those consuming eyes that seemed to cut into Summer’s very soul.
Tumbling hair falling down around them in half-loosed wisps.
That strong, honed body captured in a moment of perfect grace, taut-rippling sinew, arched over Summer in that last moment.
And that rumbling voice, breathing, commanding when there could be no other possible answer, “...say yes.”
“Yes,” Summer whispered without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Fox’s neck.
And with that one word, Fox gave him his every desire.
Thickness split him open, parted his flesh to force him to mold around the shape of Fox’s cock, sliding into him in a slick slow glide that thrust his voice up from inside his chest to pour out his throat, his lips, in gasping, broken cries as he opened his body for Fox and rose up to meet him, locking his thighs around his hips, pulling him in, struggling to make himself more and more open for Fox if only because he wanted to feel him everywhere inside, desperate for it with a wanton and shameless need. Fox’s cock was a heady burn inside him, a weight that flowed so hard, remaking Summer in the image of his own desperate pleasure.
