by Zakarrie C
He didn’t realise that his eyes had rolled back in his head until the thumb was whisked away. Dylan was still attempting to blink them into place when the bed abruptly quaked as Gabriel elbowed himself to a sitting position before yanking his jumper over his head. Christ. The sudden extravagance of porcelain skin was breath-snatching. It was akin to watching a marble statue spring to life. He was…beautiful. Unearthly so. A truth that obliterated the rest of Dylan’s rapidly fraying self-control—and/or sanity—he neither knew nor cared as he launched himself at Gabriel, taking him down in a slam of skin that damn near blew Dylan’s mind.
“I—” His face had frozen in a mask of shock, eyes pinned wide, such was the impact on his system. Surely, Dylan should have felt that something was…amiss? Not psychologically—physically—in the very real, visceral sense.
Nothing was missing. At all. It was too much everything, for anything to be absent. It was a collision akin to bouncing his head off a brick wall—but almost as startling—was the realization that this didn’t seem…revelatory. It just felt right. Too right to feel wrong in any way.
“Dylan! Tell me.” The panic in Gabriel’s voice had much the effect of clapping his hands in front of Dylan’s eyes. Panic? Why…? Unless, might it possibly be the fault of the frozen frog face. Dickhead.
Gabriel was likely expecting to be headbutted…or for Dylan to spring up, grab his stuff and flee into the night, when he recovered his senses. That had to happen surely, if his punters got cold feet. Or even a sudden an attack of guilt?
Dylan had never felt less inclined to inflict injury, or fuck off, in his life…but how could he assure Gabriel of that? Listening to Dylan’s crap wasn't part of the deal—but he had to tell him something—if only to reassure Gabriel he wasn’t about to get battered. Or abandoned. Despite the frog face. Tell him the truth but keep it simple. Succinct.
“I-Gabriel, I-I want—”
That went well then. Dylan now had a frog in his throat, too. Kermit would be leaping out of his boxers next, if matters progressed apace. Probably while singing a Christmas Carol. Now there was a movie well worth a festive viewing. Muppets…? How much rum had he necked? Not enough to lubricate his vocal chords, that much was abundantly clear; Dylan had seized up mid-sentence and hadn’t so much as croaked since. Enough with the frog thing, f’fucksakes.
Much to his relief, Gabriel didn’t wait for further pearls of wisdom to spill forth. Eastertide had started to seem optimistic. Whip-swift, catching him unawares, Gabriel threw his weight to the left, tipping Dylan off and promptly reversing their positions.
“Dylan…I know.” Gabriel’s face was so close, his breath fluttered Dylan’s fringe as inky pools of dark light bored soul deep. “I want you…not because. Despite.”
Not because…he’s being paid? Despite that? If Gabriel had one ounce of self-preservation, he would never have admitted something so flammable. Dylan felt fairly sure he’d put out a fire with fucking petrol. Gabriel should have fled as if the hounds of hell were after him…which did seem to suggest he would stay exactly where he was. Dylan should have anticipated that ‘despite’ soon proved less lethal than the very next sentence unleashed by those lips.
“I want you to take me. Hard. Harder than you’ve ever dared before. I Want.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gabriel
There. It couldn’t be stated any clearer than that, not without telling Dylan outright. It was far, far too late to fess up now. At least, beforehand, or there might not be a beforehand to be before.
’Twas a bit of a rum-do to wind up in such a merry mishap that moonlighting as a rent boy made more sense than ’fessing up to not selling his sorry arse to all and sundry. Quite how he’d managed to pull off that particular pickle, Gabriel knew not, but he was becoming ever more certain he’d gauged Dylan all wrong. Not in terms o’what he wanted—Gabe’s cock was crushed to rock solid proof of that—’twas the rent-a-role aspect Gabriel may have misread. A meeny mite. He’d been happy ’nuff to play his part, when it seemed that Dylan needed to believe his own misapprehensions. Why risk bursting his bubble, if that was the very thing allowing him to inhabit dreams too dark to see the light o’day? Had it served as a shield o’sorts—or a security blanket to keep safeguard Dylan from his fears—’twould have been downright cruel to snatch it away.
Renting wasn’t as daunting as the emotional mortgage of commitment. Far safer than a lifetime subscription to an ideology, label, or lover. So why shatter his illusions? Dylan had, quite literally, believed it into being. It would’ve been a tad hypocritical of Gabriel to snaffle that, when his inner dreamscape made it possible for him to muddle through the rest. More to the point, they would both lose. Stalemate was better than nothing, no matter how strangulating the lie. ’Twas worth it. He wanted Dylan; no matter how fleeting the festivities. If this was all Gabriel could have, then he didn’t give a toot what pantomime he had to perform to get his mitts on it.
“You’ve never been a punter to me,” Gabriel reiterated. “I wanted you from the moment we met.” Blimey, that was cutting it close to the bone. It was about time he put his lips to far finer use, before he blew the gaff. He’d neither fibbed, nor told the truth, which was akin to trying to tap-dance on a tightrope. “Naked for starters,” he added with a grin.
“’Kay…” Dylan just did his jerky head thing again, but the blue burned with dark promise, like moonlight glinting off a lake.
Gabriel lowered his head to brush his mouth across lips he’d been afraid he might never be permitted to touch, taste, lap; let alone be allowed to lavish every inch of honeyed skin. He’d only intended the kiss to seal a pact never made, but Dylan clasped the nape of Gabriel’s neck and starfished a palm across the small of his back. A hot press that radiated bone deep even before Dylan flexed his hips in the most vehement yesss he could have rustled up. Gabe was going to combust if he didn’t peel his punter out of those jeans sharpish. His cock was hard pressed to care about such fripperies, ’twas champing at the bit. He felt half-crazed for friction, but if he so much as twitched, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Then shift yourself before y’can’t, numbnuts.
’Twas not oft that Gabriel paid heed to his own advice, or he would’ve been sectioned many moons ago, but, in this instance, it seemed about his best bet. Not least, on the sticky consequences front. This didn’t amount to much more than shuffling back a bit, smudging his mouth across the sultry scrape of stubble peppering Dylan’s jaw, lower, to fasten at his throat.
“Ggrrbriel…” The guttural groan of his name vibrated against Gabe's lips, almost as heady as Dylan’s scent.
“Hmm?” He managed to wonder while trickling his tongue along the proud sweep of a collarbone.
“Please…” A rasp more reminiscent of pain than pleasure.
“Anything.” Gabriel promised, planting his elbows on the bed to scoot back, until he reached an irresistible nipple. So taut, ’twas a tiny pebble of rosy gold, ripe for the flicking with his tongue. Dylan’s fingers tightened in his hair as his back arched, so Gabriel took it betwixt his teeth, tugging a tad, earning himself a throaty rasp that may have been a plea. Perchance it was, Gabe edged back a bit, smattering kisses down the centre of Dylan's chest, to dally in his belly button...while pulling at his belt buckle.
’Twas a work of moments to flick open the button and drag down the zip—too close to all he craved to eke it out now—when it didn’t seem likely that Dylan would be dang chuffed if he did.
A truth borne out by the fact Dylan lifted his hips without being bidden, granting Gabriel access to yank his shrink-wrapped jeans over the swell of his arse. That cleared, he scrambled backwards to sweep them down the length of Dylan’s legs; turning them inside out and yanking them off his feet.
Gabriel vaguely heard them drop, unheeded, to the floor as he sat, gazing upon the treasure trove he’d unveiled. Dylan’s skin gleamed like runny honey where the flame licked along his limbs, flirting with bronze in the shadows it cast. Every
inch taut with wiry strength and sinewy muscle… oh, so nearly naked, save for a pair of snug-as-a-bug boxers, melded to an erection that looked as uncomfy as it was impressive. So much so, it would’ve been downright rude not to ease Dylan’s discomfort a mite.
After shuffling up to straddle his knees, Gabriel flicked his eyes to a face carved with such lavish care, Dylan seemed almost unreal in the half-light. A mirage conjured by an imagination so starved of inspiration it had shifted into the realms of fantasy.
Dylan watched intently; glinty gleam full-beam bright as Gabriel slid a fingertip beneath the waistband of his pants afore plucking them from his skin. The blue flickered, flared, but Dylan didn’t demur, nor did he flinch when Gabriel eased the filmy cotton over his hips. Streewwth. A sharp intake of breath shattered the silence—he wasn’t even sure whose it was—cos every fibre of his being was focused on Dylan’s so-hard ’twas quivering cock. Gabriel had, indeed, wrapped his lips around it earlier, but nothing could’ve compared to the luxury of gazing down upon Dylan’s naked, needing, body. Gabriel swooped to swipe a flattened tongue along his tremouring length, tasting the evidence from not so long—far too long—ago.
“Gnrhh! Ssstop!” Oops.
A glistening preview of what Gabriel might be gifted a tad too soon nestled at its tip, so he lapped it off before doing as he was bid. He’d scarce started to straighten up when Dylan abruptly jack-knifed off the bed and tackled Gabriel down in a tangle of body parts afore clasping his wrists to pin them beside his head.
“Tease…” he hissed, slamming his hips forwards. Fuck. There was no ridge of denim separating them now; just flimsy fabric between Gabriel’s cock and the hard heat that was all Dylan, drilling through it.
“I was savouring the moment…’til you felt able to take wh—”
“I’ve felt able for three days,” Dylan cut in. Words that shot arrow-straight to Gabriel’s groin.
“Prove it…” he p’raps purred. A smidge.
“Oh, I intend to…” This with a flinty gleam so fierce it damn near set fire to the bed. Blimey.
“May I have a hand?” The dark wings of Dylan’s brows furrowed, so Gabriel clarified, “Mine?”
“Oh…” When Dylan loosened his grip on Gabe’s right wrist, he slid his hand between them to pop his own button, then reached out to tug the bedside drawer open and forage for the lube. Bummer, this part could prove jarring. Gabriel was more than a mite inclined to forgo foreplay, just slick Dylan up and grit his teeth. Trusting his instincts was p’raps wisest, although Gabriel’s bum would p’raps beg to differ.
In a nutshell; if Dylan eyed the lube warily, or point-blank blanched, then ’twould be rubber ring time until Gabriel had opened a fair few windows on his calendar. Rubber. Now there was a word he could’ve done without. In word or deedy. Being Rent-a-Gabriel was waaay past its sell boy date.
All o’this whizzed through his head in the time it took to extract the lube from the drawer, drop it on the bed by his hip and rustle up the far less welcome bit o’kit. ’Twas roundabout then that Dylan planted his palms on the bed and pushed himself up enough to crawl backwards—a flurry of movement that may have been sudden—but sure as strewth wasn’t staggering. That bit came courtesy of the hand Dylan reached out to grip Gabriel’s zi—fuck, no pants.
“Dylan! I haven’t—” The rest died a death in his throat as Gabriel flicked his guilty gaze from his spring-loaded cock to Dylan’s face.
’Twas, quite possibly, the first time any part of Gabriel had ever made an earlier than expected appearance in his life. That noted, it didn’t seem likely that Dylan would be much gratified to learn of this unprecedented promptness.
It may have been Gabriel’s deer in the floodlights face that saved the day. Or the festive spirit quaffed by Dylan with such gay abandon. Perhaps ’twas a Christmas cocktail of the two. With a cherry (of sorts) on top. Dylan took one look at Gabriel’s bulging eyeballs and promptly spluttered a fine spray o’spittle at his crotch. Well, blimey. A spritz of Dylanicious saliva was an unexpected seasonal bonus, t’be sure.
“What did you think I expected to find in there!?” he hooted. Hooted?
“I dunno…pants? Rather than a pop-up-cock?”
“Only if I was insensate below the waist,” he snorted. “And blind as a bat, which I’m not. What I am, is…” Dylan broke off to drop down and place a palm either side of Gabriel’s head. “…horny as hell. Gabriel, tell me what you need. I don’t want to…fuck this up.” Finished off with a wry twerk o’lips to acknowledge the très appropriate pun.
“You couldn’t. I want you, not just—”
“You don’t need to say that.” Dylan bit out, cutting him off. “No more lies. I don’t want you to pander to my ego as part of…the service. I can’t stand it.” The flare of rage that flashed across Dylan’s face was as sudden as ’twas as sexy as fuck.
“I never have.” Gabriel sighed, which was true—without belying the lie—when stripping off his role might prove one layer of nakedness too many, this night.
“Gabriel f’fucksakes!” Dylan snarled, spearing him laser beam blue aflame with fury.
“Dylan, why are you miffy?”
“Because I want you to be real, I don’t want you to fake fuck-all. For me,” he scowled.
“You say that…but how real are you?” A whisper of words too harsh to utter aloud.
“What d’you mean?” Dylan frowned, for all the world as if Gabriel was talking twaddle.
“Are you here as a punter, or yourself? It cuts both ways. As a punter, you get exactly what you want. But you also get what I won’t ask for. That’s the way it works. Payment for services rendered, no needs to meet.” Gabriel shrugged.
“I have never treated you like a rent boy.” Dylan rapped out, but the tartness of his tone had smudged with uncertainty when he added, “Have I…?”
“What were you intending to do, after you’d shagged me?” Gabriel spoke softly, without a sliver of snark. ’Twas tightrope time; nary a misstep must he make.
“I…hadn’t thought about…afterwards.” Dylan admitted. Mayhaps to them both.
“Will you stay, if I ask you to?” Gabriel wondered, as airy as a waft on the breeze. “Sleep here with me…wake up with me? Open number seven tomorrow…with me?”
“Yes.”
One word. A world of beyond-his-wildest-dreams wrapped within it.
“I am not a rent boy.” Gabriel stated. Definitively.
"How often do you get asked to say that?” Dylan smirked. “It was pitch perfect.”
“What the bejeezus are you on about!?” One of us has lost the plot-a-lot, surely?
“As in: ‘I’ll be whatever you want me to be…’” Dylan practically purred, in a voice that sounded a very lot like Jessica Rabbit. ’Twas also as hot as hell. Scoundrel.
“Dylan. What is your surname?” Gabriel huffed.
“Devereaux.” He supplied, despite twerking his lips in a ‘wtf’ sort o’way. ’Twas more than a mite clear who Dylan would plump for on the missing plot front.
“Are you French?” Gabriel couldn’t help but ask, his curiosity rekindled. Dylan’s skin was far too luscious a shade to trace back to Blighty’s shores.
“Blood, not birth. My mum and dad come from Normandy.” The mention of his dad made Gallic gold flush rose doré.
“You make more sense French,” Gabriel decided. “You have a certain élégance of bearing too magnifique to be British. Je m’appelle Gabriel Farrell.”
“Are you Irish?” Dylan rejoined, assuming an air of gravitas, as if this was a matter of much import to be discussing. While half-naked and hovering over a mostly starkers man. He wore his half-pint o’rum well, it must be said. With a je ne sais quoi that was as befitting as his nom de famille.
“From the top o’the morning to the tips o’my toes, t’be sure.” Gabriel confirmed in broad brogue. “Full o’blarney I might be…but I’ve never been full o’punters. Dylan, I want you. Inside me. For Real.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan
“Dylan! I haven't—” Gabriel squeaked when he dragged down the zip of his trousers.
Haven’t got any pants on…possibly? Dylan had been fully aware of that fact for some time, or as sure as dammit, anyway. It had felt very much as if the only barrier between their bodies was but a layer of fabric; Gabriel seemed far too…free to be constrained by closely-fitting pants. He could’ve been wearing baggy boxers of course…but really? His profession alone made a mockery of that assumption; besides which, if there was anyone on Earth who might be inclined to go commando, unencumbered by constraint, of any sort? That would be Gabriel.
So, Dylan knew damn well what to expect the moment he yanked on the zip; which was part of the reason he’d just…pounced, before he had time to ponder that fact. Perhaps in a ripping the plaster off sort of way, perhaps…not. After the astounding realization that nothing had felt…amiss in that incandescent clash of chests, it seemed somewhat probable that Dylan wouldn’t be too perturbed by the contents of Gabriel’s not-pants.
He didn’t fall off the top of the bloody Christmas tree, for chrissakes. If Dylan’s body craved him—him —with a ferocity he’d never felt in his fucking life before…then it wasn’t rocket science, was it? Existential crisis aside; it was ludicrous to suggest that every fibre of his fucking being fancied a pick ’n’ mix of Gabriel’s. Of course, he didn’t know—couldn’t presuppose—how he’d feel when it came to the crunch, but he was utterly certain on one count. Never once in the last three days had Dylan dwelled on the notion that Gabriel would be perfect…if only he didn’t have a cock. Two counts; he sure as hell couldn’t have sprung it on himself in a more ta-dah manner than that.
