by Jamie Craig
Jefferson smoothed his hand over Micah’s stomach, his hips, his thighs. He skimmed Micah’s shaft with his knuckles. It was almost, but not quite enough, to distract Micah from the continued, gradual penetration. He didn’t stop until his finger was buried to the last knuckle, then he paused.
“Are you all right?”
Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, Micah offered a wan smile. “I’m not sure how this prepares me, though. They’re not exactly the same size.”
Jefferson snorted. “No, they’re not. But we have to start somewhere.” He began moving his finger, pumping his wrist with deliberately long strokes. “First, I have to spread the salve everywhere. Then…” He slipped a second finger inside Micah’s body, rotating his hand as he did so. “We can worry about the size.”
Two fingers didn’t feel twice as thick. It felt more, and Micah’s hand shot out to grasp Jefferson’s arm as he fought not to tense up. Jefferson still watched, intent and wary, but his hand did not stop moving, pushing all the way until his knuckles kneaded Micah’s flesh, twisting on their path out as if to acquaint every inch of his channel with sensation. The strokes burned, but the fullness that had been excruciating at the onset eased to an ache that felt oddly familiar. It wasn’t long before Micah’s grip loosened, and he uttered a single word.
“More.”
Jefferson’s moan came from deep in the back of his throat, and his prick visibly jerked. He accommodated Micah’s request with a third finger. His other hand moved from Micah’s body, dipping into what remained of the salve. Micah’s breath caught in his throat as Jefferson gripped his own shaft and began to smooth the gel up and down his skin. Micah watched, entranced, trying to imagine what it would be like to have Jefferson’s thick length spread him, stretch him, split him.
“Micah…are you ready?”
If he were any more ready, he’d burst out of his skin.
“Please, Jefferson.” Unable to resist any longer, he reached down and glided his hand down the length of his lover’s prick. When he reached the base, he coiled his fingers around it and squeezed, tugging at the same time. “I don’t want anything to be between us any longer.”
He bent over Micah’s body again, propping himself up on his hand. He pulled the other free of Micah’s body, and for just a moment, Micah felt empty. Jefferson brushed his mouth across Micah’s brow, cheeks and mouth as he guided the tip of his arousal to Micah’s stretched hole.
“I’ll not hurt you,” he promised as his crown finally breached Micah’s waiting body.
He knew he had to stay relaxed, that it would only hurt if he tensed. But Jefferson was far thicker than his fingers, and he couldn’t help the cry of pain escaping his throat as he clenched against the intrusion.
Jefferson immediately froze. It was on the tip of Micah’s tongue to tell him to stop, he couldn’t do this, it was too much, and he knew if he did, Jefferson would agree.
It was that realization—that knowledge that Jefferson loved him enough to the point of denying his own satisfaction—that stayed his tongue.
“Micah…” The word was ragged as Jefferson held himself motionless. “Relax, please.” Micah nodded, doing his best to will the tension out of his body. “That’s it. Just like that.” Jefferson pushed deeper, by less than an inch, then froze again. “I can’t believe…how good you feel. I’m going to go a little deeper now.” And then he was filling him by another inch.
He continued like that, rocking forward slightly, stopping, covering Micah’s face in kisses, for what felt like an eternity. Micah didn’t know where to touch. He couldn’t keep his hands still, but each time he found a hold on Jefferson’s body, the world shifted on its axis, and a fresh flurry would make his muscles tremble, forcing him to find a new grip.
The next time he cried out, it wasn’t from pain. After another gentle push, Jefferson reached between their bodies and found his prick, stroking it as he sucked at a spot on Micah’s neck. Micah arched away from the floor, fire dancing behind his closed eyelids, and in the space of the next breath, felt Jefferson sheathe the rest of his length, the heavy weight of his body bearing him back down.
“Love you…Micah…Love you…” Jefferson kissed him between the declarations, each caress lasting longer and longer, until their mouths were fused together. He eased back, but didn’t pull away from Micah completely. Micah gasped and moaned into Jefferson’s mouth, and Jefferson echoed him with his own soft groans. When he pushed forward the second time, the pain was greatly diminished. On the third thrust, a sharp sort of pleasure began to radiate through him.
His feet had been braced on the floor, his heels digging in with the initial penetration, but now, as fire more delicious than anything he’d ever experienced began to lick its way through his veins, Micah lifted them up, his hips raising as well as he wrapped his legs around Jefferson’s trim hips. It forced him deeper with the following strokes, and Micah had to tear his mouth away, unable to breathe as the ecstasy rolled through him.
“‘I follow you into a different clime…’” Jefferson’s voice was like an anchor, grounding him. His voice was deep, each word rich with inflection and meaning. It almost didn’t sound like the poem Micah wrote. “‘Hunting the living silver streaks of light.’” Another slow stroke, the words taking shape between them. “‘Finding a resting place where we two can meet.’” His breath was hot like a brand, the words hotter than the fire dancing and popping mere feet from his bare skin. “‘Until this long night flees before us…’” Jefferson kissed the corner of Micah’s mouth. “I’m never going to forget a single word.”
Shudders wracked through him. Fears he might have held deep about the wrongness of loving Jefferson, about giving himself so freely to another man, about wanting to please and be consumed by him both in flesh and spirit, were forever forgotten, lost beneath the power that wrapped around both of them and held them together. Micah cupped the back of Jefferson’s head, sealing their lips together, while the other raked down Jefferson’s spine, desperate for him, for more, for everything he had to offer. He took everything he had been taught and gave it back, the thousandfold he’d already sworn. He nibbled. He caressed. He swept their tongues together. It was purely by accident that he stumbled upon the one thing that drove Jefferson utterly mad.
He bore down around Jefferson’s prick.
Micah had made it a point to pay attention to every sound, every expression, every smile, and every other detail when it came to Jefferson. But the sound Jefferson made at that moment was unlike anything he had ever heard. It wasn’t quite a shout, or a moan, or a howl, or Micah’s name. It was a combination of all those things, and something else entirely. And like the night before, Jefferson’s tightly held control finally slipped from his grasp. Jefferson’s strokes were no longer slow and deliberate, but erratic, and a little harder, a little faster.
Muscles ached that he hadn’t realized he had, but that didn’t stop Micah from rocking with Jefferson, his thighs quivering as he dug his heels into Jefferson’s buttocks. It was a silent spur to continue, to drive into his body with whatever abandon he might choose. Micah wanted them as one, just as Jefferson had always professed, but as the angle of their hips shifted, Jefferson thrust inside him, and a cascade of relentless sparks, like those of a fire gone mad, tore through his flesh.
Jefferson’s hand was hot and tight around his shaft, and Micah couldn’t help but jerk and writhe, trying to force just a little more contact, a little more friction. Jefferson obliged, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Micah couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything except brace himself for the pleasure to scorch him completely, but Jefferson found his tongue. “I bless the lot that made me love you.”
His warm fluid erupted over Jefferson’s hand and onto Micah’s stomach, and he clenched around Jefferson’s shaft, his entire body tightening. A sound made it past his constricted throat, but it was just a strangled moan. His prick jerked again and again, and Micah thought it wouldn’t end. He though
t he would be trapped in this fire, consumed by it completely, until there was literally nothing left of him. Jefferson didn’t seem to have the same fear. He kept moving his hips, thrusting and panting, until Micah thought he would have to beg him to stop to get a little bit of relief. He opened his mouth, and Jefferson immediately plunged his tongue between his lips, his shout vibrating down Micah’s throat, and his prick jerked against Micah’s walls.
He wrapped his arms and legs more tightly around Jefferson, holding him as close as he could get, and waited for the tangible tremors to subside. It was overwhelming to consider the effect he had on Jefferson; it was even more than it had been trying to reconcile the effect Jefferson had on him. But he allowed the onslaught of the harsh kiss, letting the fervor that locked Jefferson above to ease, the clash of their mouths slowly gentling into caresses more recognizable to his meager experiences.
“So we wear each other now,” he murmured against Jefferson’s lips. “My heart as yours. Yours, mine.”
Jefferson brushed damp strands of hair away from Micah’s face. “Thank you.”
He smiled sleepily. “So did my Christmas gift warm you as completely as your gloves did me?”
“Yes.” Jefferson pulled back slightly, easing out of Micah’s body. He settled on his side on the floor, pulling Micah’s back against his chest, so they were both facing the fire. “You sound tired now. Are you going to fall asleep on me?”
His lids were heavy, and his body felt molten, too heavy to move properly in the wake of their lovemaking. “It’s very rigorous work trying to keep up with a man of the world such as yourself,” he teased. “It shall take much practice for me to reach your stalwart heights.”
“Oh, but you are much younger than me. I’ve already long passed the years of my peak physical perfection. You, on the other hand…” Jefferson glided his palm over Micah’s trim body. “Once you are accustomed to the exertion, I won’t be able to keep up with you.”
“Then those will be the times when I wait for you. Because I have no intention of going anywhere without you, ever again.”
Micah rested his head on Jefferson’s arm. The flames were blurring now, the world growing soft around the edges. Heat surrounded him, and it wasn’t simply the warmth generated by the fire that made him feel protected. It was the love emanating from Jefferson, the devotion he lavished to make him feel at home, that Micah truly cherished.
As he began to slip into sleep, it dawned on him that he had yet to say the actual words. He struggled past the veils to open his eyes and twist his neck in order to meet Jefferson’s steady gaze.
“I love you,” Micah murmured.
He saw the column of Jefferson’s throat work as he swallowed, and his eyes shone as they had done earlier. Micah recognized it as pure emotion, unshielded, without shame or hesitation. Jefferson kissed his brow tenderly.
“I swear, I will never tire of hearing those words from your lips.” Another brief kiss. “I love you too. Rest, now. When you wake, we’ll have a proper Christmas dinner.”
Micah rested his head on Jefferson’s shoulder and finally let sleep overtake him.
Chapter 15
A day spent sleeping, feasting, then cuddling with Jefferson in front of the fire as they had one of their long conversations that lasted deep into the night felt like the best Christmas Micah could ever remember. In Boston, he would have had to worry about the people who stopped by to pay their regards, a stiff meal with too much food and stern glares from his parents every time he reached for wine to loosen it up, followed by a strict distribution of gifts in the front sitting room. Even now at the adult age of twenty-two, Micah was relegated to sit on the floor near the tree, allowing everyone his elder to have a proper seat, while he pretended to be excited about the clothes or oddities his family deemed appropriate for gifts.
Sitting on the floor wrapped up in a blanket with Jefferson, leaning back against his chest as he caressed Micah’s arm and hands, discussing the merits of publication was infinitely more enjoyable.
There was no discussion when it came time to bed. Wordlessly, Jefferson took Micah’s hand and led him to his bedroom, helping him undress and then spooning behind him as they had done the night before. Micah was asleep almost as soon as Jefferson slipped an arm around his waist.
I’m home. This is home.
His dreams were deep and calming, though the nudge of Jefferson’s morning erection against his backside when he woke up was a pleasantly sore reminder of just what had transpired between them. He had enjoyed it far more than he could have imagined, and was eager to do it again as soon as some of the ache faded away. Jefferson was very concerned about not hurting him, though Micah thought that if he allowed his lover the opportunity, they would spend far more time kissing and touching than they already did. But he was patient with Micah’s adapting. The little smiles Micah caught out of the corner of his eye more than convinced him that Jefferson was satisfied anyway.
“I’d like to go to the inn this morning and fetch my trunks,” he announced over breakfast. “Might we be able to accomplish that today?”
“We can go to the inn after breakfast.” Jefferson gestured with his fork. “How much did you bring with you?”
“Two trunks, one with clothing and one with personal effects. I thought we could likely manage one, and I’d solicit some of Mrs. Ruark’s men to bring the other.”
“Her sons will help. We’ll have to rearrange things here to make sure everything fits comfortably.”
Micah toyed with his eggs. “I wondered if it might be worth it to commission another desk. We’ll both wish to write, after all. Do you think we might be able to make room for that as well?”
“We should be able to find some space. In the meantime, you’re more than welcome to use the desk as you need it.”
“And you’ll be fine with that?” He regarded Jefferson with a small frown. “I feel as if I’m usurping your home.”
“You are not usurping my home. You’re welcome to the desk and anything else you might need that I possess.”
Something about the eagerness of his tone only deepened Micah’s frown. “There’s no need for us to go that far unnecessarily,” he said carefully. “I have funds. I intend to pay my own way for as long as I can.”
“I do not doubt that you have your own funds, or that you can pay your own way. But you don’t need to worry about usurping my home. And you don’t need to behave like a guest. You should consider this as your home now too.”
Micah let the issue drop. This was new for both of them and would likely create more obstacles for them to overcome as they progressed. He would simply remind himself not to take advantage of Jefferson’s generous nature.
Upon finishing their meal, Jefferson insisted on leaving the cleaning up for later, after they had returned from the inn. “It’ll give me something to do while you unpack,” he said with a smile. Micah shook his head and rolled his eyes in amusement, and together they headed off through the brisk morning air for the inn, hands deep in pockets, voices low in heated conversation as they continued their debate on the advantages of publication.
At the inn, Micah kicked the snow off his boots on the threshold, smiling as Mrs. Ruark came bustling forward. “I hope you had a pleasant holiday,” he greeted.
“Oh, no. Not at all. Didn’t you hear what happened?”
Jefferson stepped forward. “No. What happened?”
“Neither of you were at the services yesterday?”
Jefferson shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, I felt ill yesterday. What happened? Was it…Did something strange happen?”
Her gaze darted past them into the street. Sidestepping them, she ushered them further inside so that she could shut the door. “Remember those problems we had with the doors and shutters a few months back?” she asked, her voice much lower in spite of them being the only ones in the large room with her. “Yesterday, all the bolts snapped. At the same time. And the windows on either side of the pulpit shat
tered. Reverend Deem was rather severely cut from the flying glass.”
Micah’s eyes widened, but his gaze immediately jerked to Jefferson. He had gone completely still, everything pale but his intense eyes fixated on Mrs. Ruark.
“Is Reverend Deem going to be all right? Perhaps we should visit?”
Mrs. Ruark shook her head at Jefferson’s question. “I saw Dr. Browning this morning, and he told me that Reverend Deem needs time to recover. He’s very weak right now.”
“But he will recover,” Micah pressed.
“Oh, yes. Given rest and God’s good will.”
“Was anybody else hurt?”
She seemed a little surprised at his question, but answered anyway. “No, just the reverend. But after everything else that’s been happening at the church this fall and winter, people are starting to worry.”
“Yes, I don’t blame you. The experience must have been quite frightening.” Jefferson’s words were sympathetic, but his tone was distracted. “Could we get your sons to help us carry Micah’s trunks to my home?”
“Oh, is he going to be staying with you, then?”
“Yes. He’s going to be working on his own volume of poetry and needed a quiet place to work.”
Mrs. Ruark beamed at Micah. “Well, imagine that. Can you imagine Wroxham having its own famous writer? You know, I read all the pamphlets and newspapers I can get my hands on. There aren’t as many in the winter, though, since we don’t have as many guests.”
“Then I’ll be sure to send over anything I get,” he returned with a smile.
But it bothered him that she completely ignored Jefferson’s accomplishments. Why did the entire town insist on dismissing them? Before he had the chance to argue with her, however, she bustled off to fetch her sons, leaving the two alone.
