by Jamie Craig
Jefferson slid the combination of potatoes, sausage and onions onto two plates, and then pulled six fresh eggs out of a small basket. “Well, you’ll never have to worry about your next meal while you’re with me.” He cracked the eggs into the hot fat carefully. Micah almost couldn’t hear his stomach growling over the sound of the eggs sizzling. “I might not be wealthy, but I have enough to keep you fed. I guess that means you’ve probably never raised chickens or milked a cow?”
Micah laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image Jefferson presented, then stifled it when he realized he was serious. “No, never. I can’t even say I’ve written about livestock. Are you certain you wish to have such a wastrel under your roof?”
“I’m completely positive. You’re a quick study, I’m sure we can think of ways you can contribute to the domestic upkeep.” The eggs came out of the pan. “Just in case you wonder where your food comes from, I have a small flock of hens, a cow, and I raise a pig every year for slaughter.”
He hadn’t, which embarrassed Micah even further. But with Jefferson sliding the steaming plate of food in front of him, he dismissed his foolish reactions and dug into his breakfast. Heat immediately suffused his flesh, and he moaned in satisfaction as it settled in his stomach.
As they ate, the companionable conversation did much to temper Micah’s voracious appetite. They didn’t bring up the events of the previous night, though Micah felt the slight press of Jefferson’s knee against his own beneath the table. It was as it always had been, free of awkwardness that might have otherwise arisen. He took it as further evidence that he had done exactly the right thing in coming to Wroxham.
When they were done, Micah insisted upon washing up, even with the several attempts and Jefferson’s light chuckles in the background delaying its completion. “Did you have plans for Christmas dinner?” he asked. “Mrs. Ruark invited me back to the inn, and when I explained I would likely be dining with you, she suggested you were more than welcome to join as well.”
“No, I don’t have any plans. It didn’t really seem…I didn’t see the point this year. If you wish to dine at Mrs. Ruark’s, I don’t have any objections.”
He didn’t wish. Now that he was here, all Micah wanted to do was hoard Jefferson’s company for himself. Nobody was going to tell him who he could or could not see anymore.
Shaking his head, Micah held out his hand to Jefferson. “I have other arrangements for our first Christmas together, and I fear Mrs. Ruark would be utterly aghast if she witnessed what I have in mind.”
“Oh?” Jefferson folded his fingers around Micah’s. “Does this mean I finally get to see the specifics of your mysterious plan?”
“See?” Holding Jefferson at arm’s length, Micah tilted his head as his assessing gaze swept over the other man’s tall, lean form. “That might be most interesting to witness, actually.” At Jefferson’s puzzled frown, he laughed and tugged him towards the sitting room. “Come. I wish to do this in front of the fire. In all my dreams, that is where we inevitably end up.”
Jefferson obediently stood in front of the fireplace, his fingers still linked with Micah’s. “What would you have me do now that we are at the hearth?”
His heart thudded. How many times had he imagined just this moment? And yet, seeing the evidence of Jefferson’s avowal to do whatever Micah wished left Micah yearning to make it last. On impulse, he closed the distance between them, reaching up to skim a soft kiss across his mouth.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he did not step back. “I had quite forgotten I now have permission to be so bold with my affections.”
Jefferson wrapped an arm around Micah, pressing his hand flat against the small of his back. “You have my permission to be as bold or as modest as you like.”
An impish grin twisted Micah’s mouth, and he wriggled away from the embrace, even though it made him ache to do so.
“You might regret granting me such,” he said, retreating for the door. “Now. Would you like your Christmas gift? Seeing as it is Christmas and all.”
“I would love my Christmas gift, as long as you don’t begrudge the fact that I don’t have anything to offer in exchange.”
His smile softened. “How can I begrudge what isn’t true? You’ve already given yours. I can only hope mine satisfies you as much as yours did me.”
He fled for the bedroom, leaving Jefferson behind. It took just a moment to snatch up his satchel, another to rummage around inside to ensure everything was there, and a third to return to the sitting room.
Dropping the satchel onto the chaise, Micah turned back to Jefferson. His throat went dry at the intensity of his lover’s regard, but he swallowed against it, lifting his hands to Jefferson’s shirt.
“My gift requires only one thing from you,” he said softly. His fingers moved slowly over the small buttons, baring Jefferson’s skin to his gaze. “And without your clothing, being in front of the fire will keep you warm.”
“I must admit, in front of the fire is quickly becoming my favorite place in the house.” Jefferson let Micah push his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. Micah tossed it to the chaise, then his fingers went to Jefferson’s waistband. He didn’t speak as Micah freed each button, and he didn’t breathe either. He didn’t even move.
Micah didn’t need to look down to know that Jefferson was aroused at his touch. But it still startled him slightly to feel the hardness brush against the back of his hand as it sprang free. “I’m going to need you to lie on your stomach.” He pushed at the pants, letting them fall to the floor so that Jefferson could step out of them. He couldn’t quite bring himself to get down on an even level with the hot length now prodding his hip. If he did, his entire plan would be ruined. “Fold your arms and rest your head on them. I’ll do all the rest.”
His brow knitted into a confused line, but he did what Micah instructed without hesitation. He stretched out on the floor, his erection pressed against his stomach, his head resting on his arm. His back was pale and covered in light freckles. The freckles surprised Micah, because Jefferson’s face was free of them. He had a strawberry-shaped mark just above his hip. Other than that, he appeared to be flawless.
“I can feel you staring at me.” His voice was muffled. “Have I ever told you that I’m shy?”
Micah snorted and went to his satchel. “You shall be hard-pressed to ever convince me of such. And it isn’t staring. It’s appreciating the beauty of my canvas.” As he pulled out the items he needed, he glanced back, unable to resist the temptation. “You don’t need to bury your face. This might take a while.”
Jefferson turned his head, his slate eyes dark with curiosity and desire. “Canvas? What are you going to do to me?”
“What does one normally do with a canvas?”
Though he kept his voice light, the emotion tight in his throat had his hands shaking, and he moved quickly, kneeling at Jefferson’s side. Taking a deep breath, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. The familiar gesture calmed his nerves.
“Paint. Create.” Micah’s emotion seemed to be echoed in Jefferson’s words. “Create a new shape for the world. How are you going to use this canvas?”
“I have a new poem to share.” He opened his new pot of ink and picked up the narrow brush he’d purchased especially for this task. “I thought the quill might scratch too much. With your permission, I’d like to give you this verse, wear it on your skin like the comfort I mean it to be.”
“I’ll wear it,” Jefferson breathed. “I am honored to wear your words. You will read it to me?”
Micah nodded. “I wrote it for you, after all,” he said, dipping the brush into the ink. “It would not exist otherwise.”
Turning his body sideways, Micah leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the floor next to Jefferson’s shoulder in order to prop himself up. The poem he’d written was actually too long to transcribe fully on Jefferson’s back. Once he began writing, he could not find the power to stop until he was utterly
drained. But the selection he’d chosen for this particular capture was the most poignant, he believed. He was eager to hear Jefferson’s thoughts on it.
The tip of the brush touched to the left shoulder blade. He drew the downstroke, curved back up, followed the deliberate design of the words he had chosen. It was painstaking work, the fine bristles absorbing only small bits of ink at a time, and he blew across the small skin every time he lifted the brush, unwilling to allow an accident to mar his gift. Jefferson tensed every time he did so, and Micah wondered what he was feeling, if it tickled, but Jefferson never uttered a complaint.
He waited until the first three lines were done before reading.
“There is more,” he murmured. “But this is how it begins.” Micah met Jefferson’s waiting gaze. He had long ago memorized the poem; reading it from the canvas was unnecessary. “‘In the churning misty blue twilight,/ When the encroaching night beats the broken day back,/ I look for your figure among the ancient trees/ Steepled in white and black.’”
Micah expected Jefferson to respond the way he always responded, with the appropriate compliments and criticisms. He always knew just what to say to fill Micah with pride, and to give him direction for future work. But he didn’t say anything now. He blinked, and then turned his head, hiding his face once again.
Tamping down the mild disappointment, Micah dipped the brush back into the ink and continued to write, his script flowing faster in his desire to share the rest of the poem. Please like it. I don’t know how else to tell you. I don’t know how else to show you what you’ve done for me, how you’ve opened my eyes to the world.
Jefferson never moved. There was the occasional tightening of a muscle, a ripple beneath the pale skin that made Micah yearn to bend down and smooth it over with his tongue. The words coiled and slithered across Jefferson’s back, and bit by bit, the black ink overcame the lighter background, a tattoo of everything that Micah was and everything he felt.
“It’s done,” he said, finishing the last letter. “Would you like to hear the last of it?”
Jefferson’s back rose and fell as he took a deep breath. He finally lifted his head to regard Micah with unusually bright eyes. “Please.”
He didn’t look away. “‘I follow you into a different clime/ Hunting the living silver streaks of light/ Finding a resting place where we two can meet/ Until this long night flees before us. Startled like a hart in the forest/ Losing ground, unable to tarry where you are/ The pitiless night cannot stay/ In the place you will see it/ It is your aspect that doth inspire the new day.’”
Jefferson was silent for a long beat. The world was silent. The wood in the fire didn’t dare snap, and the ice-encrusted earth held its breath with Micah. He watched as some nameless struggle twisted Jefferson’s face. It almost looked like pain marring his handsome features. His lips parted, but the sound he made was without form. Micah almost apologized for his poor verse. Maybe if he had expressed himself more eloquently, more elegantly, this endless moment wouldn’t be quite so eternal.
“Micah…I have never…” Jefferson stopped and cleared his throat, but he couldn’t smooth out the rough edges on his words. “Nobody has ever given me such a precious gift.”
Relief, scorching and fluid, surged through him. “They are but words. But their meaning is true. I would give them to you a thousandfold if you allowed me.”
“They are not just words. They’re words that I…I never thought…” Jefferson sat up now, but he didn’t quite meet Micah’s eyes. “I had hoped that you would return my feelings one day. But like so many things you have now given me, I didn’t dare expect it.”
For the first time since formulating his plan to tell Jefferson, Micah regretted his choice. Reaching to touch Jefferson’s cheek, he said, “Perhaps I should have said something sooner. I simply wanted to demonstrate how acutely you’ve touched me. It’s as if I’ve spent my entire life trapped inside a glass box, staring out at a world I couldn’t truly comprehend. And you took that box away. You made my life breathe with color and sound, and I shall eternally be grateful that you consider me worthy of your affection.”
“Micah…” Jefferson wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest, then buried his face in Micah’s neck. “You didn’t have to tell me sooner.” He pressed a kiss against Micah’s skin. “This is perfect. You’re perfect. Can I make a request?”
“Anything.”
“I want to do the same for you, show you the same thing. I want to cover your body with mine. I want to impress everything I feel on your skin.” Jefferson slid his hands down Micah’s back. “I want to be surrounded by you…feel you everywhere.”
Micah turned his head and kissed the stubble along Jefferson’s jaw. “You claimed my heart long ago. It makes sense you claim my body now.”
Jefferson shuddered against him. “I need to get one thing. You undress, all the way this time, and lay down here.”
Releasing him, Jefferson practically bounded from the room, leaving Micah to rise to his feet and fight with the fastenings of his clothing. His heart threatened to pound a path outside its cage, and his fingers shook with anticipation. All his nervousness about how his poem might be received was gone, banished by the fierce look in Jefferson’s eyes, the tremors of his body he could not control. Now, his only concern was to satisfy Jefferson as wondrously as Micah had been satisfied the night before.
When Jefferson appeared again in the doorway, Micah was stretched out on his back, his clothes folded beneath his head for a pillow. His hands rested on his stomach, in an attempt to quell their quivering, obscuring his thick and heavy arousal leaking onto his skin. It was the first time Jefferson had ever seen him fully undressed; he only hoped he loved his flesh as much as his spirit.
Jefferson stopped short, the small tin can in his hand almost forgotten. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. Micah could feel the weight of his gaze as he studied every inch of Micah’s exposed body, from his feet to his mouth. Jefferson apparently forgot about his own shyness, because he stood above Micah without a thought to his own nudity.
“You are the most divine thing I have ever seen.”
His pleased smile lightened the worry knotting inside him. “You must not possess mirrors then,” he teased, and held a hand out to Jefferson. “I did as I was told. Would you really leave me all alone like this?”
Jefferson took his hand and lowered himself to his knees. He set the tin aside, then ran his hand down Micah’s chest. “You surpass every dream I’ve ever had.” He straddled Micah without warning, letting his erection drag against Micah’s firm skin, pressing their chests together. Dropping his head, he teased Micah’s lips with the softest kisses, pulling away each time Micah tried to deepen the caress. “Do you want to know exactly what we’re going to do?”
His blood raced. Micah swallowed in order not to let his sudden apprehension show too overtly. “You would tell me after I insisted on surprising you?” he tried to joke.
“I don’t think my surprise would be as nice as yours.” Jefferson slid his hand down Micah’s body and between his tense thighs. He cupped Micah’s sac, massaging him as he had done the night before, and then let his fingers slip farther between his legs. Micah expected him to tease the too-sensitive skin as he had done before, but this time, Jefferson didn’t stop. Not until he traced Micah’s tight hole. “I’m going to use that salve to make you slick and stretched. Then, when you’re ready, and it won’t hurt, I’m going to slide my prick into you.”
Everything about him burned—cheeks enflamed from the bluntness of Jefferson’s words, skin enflamed at the thought of what he was going to do, blood enflamed from the sensations Jefferson invoked with his touch. It parched his throat, his mouth, made it impossible to blink or tear his eyes away from his lover’s.
Simply thinking of Jefferson in that terminology made him gasp for air.
“Is that…?” Memories came flooding back, of Jefferson pressed to his back, his hard erection grinding ag
ainst Micah’s backside, how Micah had ground back. Not the softer memories of earlier, the sense of naturalness it had evoked. These were the carnal gates that opened, how his buttocks had clenched and unclenched, how the shudders had wracked through him when he’d found his release. Micah wet his lips, aware of Jefferson’s gaze following the movement. “You said that in your letters. How you wanted to know all of me. Is this what you meant?”
Jefferson continued to trace Micah’s pucker with the tip of his thumb. “That is what I meant. Sometimes, I thought I should tell you the complete truth. But I didn’t want to startle you. I wanted to be sure you trusted me, first. I wanted to be sure you wanted it too.” He skimmed his mouth over Micah’s. “Do you want it? Do you want me to know all of you?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t have stopped the answer even if he wanted to. Heedful of the ink on Jefferson’s back, Micah skimmed his hands down his sides instead, only stopping when he reached his hips. “‘As in the soft and sweet eclipse,/ When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips…’” He kissed Jefferson again, this time lingering longer. “I trust you. With everything that I have. If you tell me it’ll be good, I’ll believe you.”
“It will be. I promise.” Jefferson’s hand disappeared and he sat up. Micah watched intently as Jefferson opened the tin and scooped a healthy amount of the yellowish salve on his fingers. It was cool at the first contact against Micah’s heated skin and he gasped, but he didn’t try to jerk away. Jefferson kept his gaze locked on Micah’s face as he pushed the tip of his finger past Micah’s ring of muscle. “Just remember to stay relaxed. It’ll be uncomfortable if you are tense.”
He nodded. Speech was beyond him.
The sensations were completely alien to him. This was different than the pressure against his backside, of that feeling of being utterly surrounded by Jefferson that he’d adored. The shallow insertion brought with it a slight burn, the salve Jefferson used to slick the way notwithstanding, and it was difficult not to squirm against the sense of intrusion.
