Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  Never. He'd never touched, never kissed Khalid's prick, except under the pretense of force. Even lately, he was always tied.

  Sliding the tip of Khalid's cock between his lips, the taste of him worked on Galen like a powerful aphrodisiac. A thrill vibrated through his core as he drew Khalid deeper into his mouth, working his tongue over him, savoring the piquant flavor of him.

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  Khalid's fingers combed into his hair, over his scalp, and that drove another hot thrill down Galen's spine, into his hard cock. When Khalid groaned and his cock lurched, Galen sucked more determinedly at his lover's prick, suddenly desperate to hear his cry of release, to feel the spurt of warm wet in his mouth, to know, at that moment, that he'd given Khalid that pleasure.

  “Galen. Please,” Khalid groaned, nudging him back, slipping from his mouth, from his embrace.

  For a second the anxiety started to seep back in. Khalid was pulling away. Would they not even get this one night before everything fell apart? But Khalid was gazing down, looking absolutely rapt. Galen took the hand Khalid was offering, and stood.

  “Please,” Khalid breathed by his ear, “get those off and get into bed with me.”

  Yes. God, yes. Galen shucked off his shorts and sank onto the bed with Khalid.

  So good, the feel of Khalid's skin against his own, his leg sliding between Khalid's, Khalid's nipple stiffening under his fingertip, their cocks, their bellies brushing and slipping against each other as they kissed.

  With the tip of a finger Galen traced the shape of Khalid's mouth. He loved that mouth, its repertoire of subtle grins, how it had teased and mocked him with the faintest curves. How one real, open smile could flood him with joy, because its rareness made it so powerful.

  Galen touched and kissed every inch of Khalid's body, every millimeter of his face, exploring in this one night all the places, all the responses he would have learned over days or weeks with other lovers, that had gone ignored for years, with Khalid.

  Khalid knew him better; he'd licked and caressed every last bit of his body the first time 369

  he'd tied him up, and retaken them again and again in the years after. But now, for the first time, Galen yielded himself, writhing into every kiss, opening and rising to every caress, nothing defended.

  He could hardly stand it. Galen needed him. Now. Please. Pulled him hard to him. Kissed him deep. Stroked and coaxed him.

  “No, Galen. Please,” Khalid said, his voice soft, his gaze vulnerable. “You take me.”

  “But . . .” He'd planned all along to let Khalid fuck him. A sign, a promise that he loved him, that he was done keeping himself from him. “Khalid.” Galen smiled, gave him one soft little kiss on the lips. “I want to. I want to give myself to you.”

  “You offering yourself to me, will this be the only time?”

  “No.”

  “Then please, Galen, tonight, this first time, you take me.”

  “All right,” Galen whispered back, kissing Khalid's cheek, ear, lips.

  It was strange, how emotional Galen felt, going into Khalid, for the first time not pumped up and panting from battle, not playing at retaliation. At violence.

  “I love you,” Galen breathed. The words didn't cover what he was feeling.

  “Moi aussie, Galen. Je t'aime.”

  Tenderly, then urgently, they made love. Drawing it out. Every thrust, every moan, every kiss and caress a tease, then pushing each other right to the wall, fierce and hot, reining each other in, over and over, at the last second, until they were too exhausted, too needful to hold themselves back any more.

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  After, Galen held himself there, silent, still. Now that need had vanished, he was left with the raw certainty of what he'd done. All those years of careful silence, and now he'd confessed. Fear chilled him, clawed at the skin on his back. It had gotten hard to breathe, but all his will was focused on one thing. Staying inside Khalid. That tenuous connection, bound to fail at any moment, maybe that was the only thing holding things together.

  Khalid. Still under him, still wrapped around him, close-clinging limbs, the hot tight clutch of his body still pulling at him. Khalid's luminous eyes. Watchful. Fearful.

  Scared Galen was about to hurt him. He always had, after. Warmth, regret, shame, utter adoration washed out all Galen's fear.

  “It's all right,” he sighed to Khalid, kissing his face, stroking his hair. “It's all right.”

  Khalid nodded. But he was still stiff, his eyes wide. Alert. Apprehensive.

  But when Galen kissed, Khalid softened. Kissed back. Warm and seeking. And after, when Galen smiled down at him, Khalid's full lips curved and his golden eyes lit up. Joy. God, it made him look young. Like an exuberant boy. But it looked delicate.

  Ephemeral. Just floating across Khalid's features, threatening to fade, to reveal that eternally stoic visage.

  “Don't worry, Khalid. I'm with you. I'm yours. If you want me.”

  “If?”

  “Like this, I mean.”

  “Galen. I have wanted you like this for so long, and it has seemed so far away, really I do not know how to believe it.”

  “You can believe it, Khalid. I promise.”

  371

  “Tell me again. Now. Now that you've quenched tonight's need.”

  A surge of warm affection welled up in him. And laughter. Quenched? He already wanted Khalid again, and he was still inside of him. He smiled.

  “I love you, Khalid. I've loved you all this time. I just . . . couldn't tell you.”

  There was that joy again, back in his eyes, back in the curve of his mouth.

  “Does it make you happy?” Galen already regretted the words as he said them.

  Khalid's smile faded and the light in his eyes dimmed. But he stroked Galen's cheek and said softly, “All this time, have I been wrong about the thing that has scared you?”

  Galen didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't speak.

  “You remember the time, Galen, when you came back to me, in Paris, after I had told you to go, to leave me alone?”

  Galen cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “I was very afraid, that day, to let you in. Back into my life. But I saw that you wanted something that was . . . beyond you, then. And I decided that day to trust you, that one day you would learn to be happy with yourself. With us. That one day, we would be happy.

  “You and I, we build our barricades. Comme les miserables. But we belong together, Galen. Each of us, we are only waiting for the other to tear down these wretched little defenses.”

  Looking up at him, not smiling, but so open, utterly undefended, Khalid moved, rocking his pelvis under Galen's hips, the hot grip of his body tugging at Galen's hardening cock, making him gasp and shudder.

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  * * * *

  “You've been keeping a secret.”

  “Have I?”

  Galen turned to the next storyboard in the binder. “You're an artist.”

  Vanka tapped out the end of her thought on her laptop keyboard, then glanced down at the sketch Galen was looking at—so vague an impression as to be almost abstract.

  “I thought you went to film school, not art school.”

  “Yeah,” Vanka laughed, “one of my instructors at USC used to tease me that if I wanted a passing grade for my storyboards, I should change programs.”

  “Has Khalid seen?”

  “They're the reason he agreed to do the project.”

  Vanka fought the urge to pull her hand away. Galen's pinky had brushed against hers, and now, with just that tiny contact between them, he was touching her. Stirring her. He knew better, but it was hard to be mad; lately, since things had changed with him and Khalid, Galen radiated a sweet joy that made her smile every time she looked at him.

  Now he was tracing between her fingers, his light touch just at the edge of perception. When he turned her wrist, exposed her palm, drew a fine web of pleasure there, warmth pooled in her belly, heavy and sweet. All week she'd be
en staving off her want, determined to let Galen and Khalid have a little time alone to nurture the new intimacy between them.

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  Under Galen's gaze Vanka blushed, then smiled, half in embarrassment and half in amusement that she still felt so vulnerable to Galen's seeking, reading eyes.

  His lips touched her palm and her breath hitched. When his warm kiss brushed her cheek, just by her ear, a ripple disturbed that heavy heat in her belly. She pulled away and tried to muster a scolding look.

  “Vanka.”

  What could she do against a smile like that? Against that tender look of his?

  “Vanka, I'm not forgetting my promise. I'm not trying to start anything.”

  This time when he lifted her hand to his lips he pressed a warm, lingering kiss into the center of her palm.

  “But I need to touch you. Be close to you.”

  Again he was kissing her face, his soft warm mouth brushing over her cheek, touching down on her forehead, teasing along her hairline, her ear. Galen pulled her into his arms, held her against him, kissed into her hair.

  “Trust me?” he breathed.

  She tried to make her taut body soft, to nestle into the warmth of his arms, against his broad, firm chest. As he stroked her bare skin, feathering his fingertips down the back of her neck, the back of her arm, it was a struggle to stay still. It was too much.

  Too much.

  But just as she was about to give in to her need to wiggle out of his embrace, to fight her way out of his heat, into the calming cool of the evening breezing in from the deck, he let her go.

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  For some reason, it was hard to move. Hard to speak. And there was Galen, looking into her. Like he knew her every thought.

  Yes, fine. She wanted him. Needed him. Missed him, them, so desperately she was afraid she'd start crying.

  “Get the restraints, Galen. And your blindfold.”

  He smiled. And when she brushed her palm over his crotch she felt his erection stirring under his jeans. She took her hand away, and waited. But he didn't go. She cocked an eyebrow.

  “Vanka,” he said, his soft voice seeming to send a tremor through the floor under her feet, shaking her, “the thought of you tying me down, blindfolding me, fucking me, you know I want it. But I couldn't, tonight. Tonight, I'm too desperate to hold you, to see you. To watch how your lip quivers when I make you come, to see how you look at me when we're making love.”

  “Galen—”

  “It's all right. I'm not asking anything from you,” he said, and touched her arm, just for a second. “And I'm not saying I don't want that—the restraints—anymore. It's just tonight, it wouldn't feel right. It would feel dishonest.”

  “Galen.”

  He was waiting for what she'd say. Her heart was pounding her chest so hard she was scared to take a breath. And then she was afraid to speak, scared of how her voice would come out.

  “Just,” she tried, swallowed past the choking roughness in her throat. Tried again. “Just give me a few minutes,” she managed. “Ten minutes. OK?”

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  Galen was just looking at her, not saying anything, and she felt like she was sinking, soft and weak. But then he said, “All right,” in his soft voice, his expression like he was afraid to believe her.

  * * * *

  When he went to her, he found her naked. Standing there, everything bare to him except her face, turned away toward the window, and her chest, shielded under her crossed arms. God, he was dying to feel her, in his arms, the length of her naked body against him. To feel her breaths swell her chest, pressed to his. To feel her holding him, her arms tight around him, her hands pulling him to her.

  But she might not. He was ready for that, too.

  When he moved closer, she stayed still, still staring out the window. Like a Greek statue. Her frame, her flesh a perfect composition of planes and curves, all smooth and pale as alabaster.

  When he touched her shoulder with his lips it seemed like she shuddered. And then, finally, she looked at him. Her lips curved in a fragile smile, her eyes wet and bright.

  “I meant to be so brave,” she said with a broken little laugh. “I was going to be standing here, all brazen and naked. But I can't. Galen. Please.”

  The sob in her voice, the pleading look in her eyes tore at his chest.

  “You're safe, Vanka.”

  Careful of how he was touching her, so she'd know it was just comfort, he stroked her arm, kissed her crown.

  “We'll wait. Another time, soon, you'll be ready.”

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  She breathed out a “no” that pulled him under, sank him down, down. He couldn't breathe.

  “No. Please.”

  Her pleading eyes. A smile quivered on her lips.

  “I'm ready. Now. Just. I need you to help me a little.”

  * * * *

  She'd felt so bold. Like when she'd initiated all the sessions with the restraints and the blindfold. But all her strength had ebbed away the moment she'd heard Galen approaching. She'd crossed her arms over her chest on instinct, and her will was useless to pry them away. She needed him to do it.

  His smile soothed, softened her. “All right,” Galen breathed.

  Galen was still stroking her arm, touching in a languid rhythm, lulling her.

  Breathing warm little kisses into her hair. Then his lips were brushing over her skin, feathering along her hairline, touching across an eyebrow, along her cheek.

  “I love you, Vanka,” he whispered between little kisses by her ear, along her jaw.

  Then he touched his lips to hers. Slow and soft, more a question than a kiss.

  Under the shield of her two crossed clutching arms her heart was hammering, her lungs working fast and shallow. And a liquid heat swirled low in her belly, her want pulsing insistently between her thighs.

  Vanka went after that hinted-at kiss, parting her lips for it. When Galen's arms wound around her, she sank against him, his body's heat and strength comforting.

  Provoking.

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  Finally, long after she'd melted—all warm, all soft, except for her shielding arms—he kissed her deep, but so gently it did more to spur her want than to sate it.

  Please. She wanted. She did, even if she didn't know, anymore, how to open herself to him. She stretched and flexed for his deeper kiss, capturing his mouth with hers until they were both shaking and panting.

  Then Galen stopped their kiss. Vanka raised her eyes to meet his, leaving herself bare as he looked into her. What did he see in her? Her want? Only her fear?

  “Galen?”

  He waited, a tender smile bending his mouth.

  “A long time ago, you told me you weren't afraid.”

  Galen was quiet.

  “Are you afraid now?” she finally managed to ask.

  “No.” He said it softly, so easily that she believed him, utterly.

  And then he guided her back a few steps, and coaxed her down onto the bed.

  Ashamed of herself, her will defeated by her fear, she kept her arms crossed tight over her chest as she laid back. As he stripped off his shorts she felt guilty, checking to see if he was hard, her gut unclenching when she verified his eager erection. She'd coached herself endlessly on this point: it was a stressful situation. He'd be burdened with a dozen anxieties, trying to handle each moment just right—hardly conducive to cultivating, much less maintaining a hard-on. But she knew, she'd have been hurt—

  however irrationally—if he'd been soft.

  But, of course, he hadn't seen yet.

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  Galen came to her, pressing his body along hers. His dark eyes bright as he gazed at her, looked into her. They kissed, soft and slow, long and deep, his fingers weaving into her hair, feathering over her face.

  And then he stopped. Gave her a tender smile. Kissed one of her knuckles, where her hand was clutching her shoulder, keeping her shield in place. Holding her gaze with his, then, he touched her clutching hand with
the tip of his finger.

  Panic flooded her veins. The muscles in her arms seized. He wasn't strong enough. Nothing, nothing could tear that shield down.

  She wanted to sob. To scream. It would be there forever, and she'd never feel the press of his body against hers, his strong arms holding her to him as they kissed, as they looked at each other, as they made love.

  But it was like he'd worked some kind of spell. He looked into her, held her close and safe in his gaze, and when his fingertip pressed down, just lightly, her grip softened.

  And as he drew his touch down, her hand, her arm went along with him. And when he touched his fingertip to her other hand where it was locked against her ribs, her arm slipped away, leaving her hurt chest undefended.

  There. There was the look of hurt. Sadness. Galen's dark eyes filled with tears as he let her out of his cradling gaze to look down at her mangled chest.

  The muscles of her arms twitched, trying to make the shield again as Galen sank slowly down and pressed a gentle kiss to the edge of a scar where it started, just below her left armpit, the wound that marked the absence of her left breast. But he stilled her arms with a caress of his fingers, and kissed again.

  She worked at letting him. This was part of it. Letting him look. Letting him touch.

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  Taking his time, he kissed along the entire length of that gash angling across half her chest, pressing his lips to every inch of the ridge of fading pink. Her sundered nerves felt the pressure of that touch, but only at the fringe of the scar and beyond did she feel the moist heat of his breath, the warm brush of his lips. She bit back a sob, remembering the pleasure of his mouth on her nipples, how his kisses there had set off sparks of need in her sex. Remembering once more she'd never feel that again.

  His lips touched down and lingered over every millimeter of every scar—the two long seams where her breasts had been, the smaller scars where they'd biopsied lymph nodes, the fresher wound, still bright and ridged, where they'd recently removed her chemo port—carefully learning this one part of her body that was new to him. When he looked up, looked into her, she didn't see the hurt in his eyes anymore.