Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
They held together like that for a moment, trembling, frozen…before Vic’s eyes rolled back with a moan, and he sank down heavily atop Amani, almost collapsing, his weight dead and limp. Amani cursed softly, cupping Vic’s cheeks, searching over his face as he stroked his thumbs along his jaw.
“Vic. Vic,” he rasped, then wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rubbing his cheek to damp hair. “Come back to me. Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.”
Vic stirred with a broken moan, then mumbled and turned his head, burying his face against Amani’s throat. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” he straggled out weakly. “I think…I ripped my cock.”
Amani blinked.
Blinked again.
Then burst into soundless laughter, only to hiss and stop as Vic stiffened and his cock shifted inside, twinging and prodding a little too deep for now.
Taking a steadying breath, Amani murmured, “I doubt it’s ripped.”
“Sprained?” Vic offered. “Broken. Do they make casts for your cock?”
“Vic.” Amani sighed with fond exasperation. “Get out of me so I can make sure you’re okay.”
“…I don’t know if I can move.”
“Here.” Amani grasped Vic’s hips and braced himself, steeling for the pain as he shifted underneath Vic, sliding himself upward and carefully pulling himself off his cock. It grated inside, but he held back his cry, forcing out through his teeth, “Come on. I’ve…ah, fuck…I’ve got you.”
Vic closed his eyes tight, spine fluxing and chest thrusting against Amani as he writhed. “Sweet hot rutabaga mother fucker!” he gasped out, then slumped atop Amani in a heaving heap.”
“I’m trying very hard not to laugh at that.” Struggling to catch his own breath again, Amani stroked Vic’s hair back and kissed his brow. “Are you okay? Seriously?”
“Yes, just…” Vic was still shuddering, little involuntary twitches all over his skin. “Ah fuck, get that thing off me.”
“Just a second.” Amani slipped a hand down between them, delicately finding the straps; contact couldn’t be avoided, and he was as careful as he could be in unsnapping them and working them free, but still Vic jerked and flinched and whimpered, his arms locking around Amani and holding crushingly tight. Once he’d found the last snap, Amani dropped the cock strap aside and slipped his arms around Vic’s shoulders, stroking the back of his neck. “Shhh. The soreness will fade when you aren’t so sensitive.” He nuzzled into his hair, just cradling him close. “Maybe we should hold off on tomorrow night’s session.”
“Not a chance,” Vic mumbled into his chest, muffled. “If you don’t want to have sex, just come spend time with me. We can go to a film.”
“The ten thousand dollar theatre ticket?”
“I should hope it’s a very good film.” Vic pushed himself up a little, then, looking over his shoulder, his expression hazed and slack and tired. “I think I ruined that Ficker,” he muttered, and Amani chuckled tiredly.
“Come on,” he said, and thumped his shoulder. “Find me a polish cloth, and I’ll make sure it’s okay.”
l
AMANI DIDN’T REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP.
He remembered cleaning Vic’s cello, carefully wiping any bodily fluids away before they could ruin the wood, using a polish cloth to preserve the shine. He remembered breaking down his own cello to remove the endpin and pack it away, along with the bow. He remembered leaving his caftan on the floor to sink against Vic, naked and tangled on the sofa, resting between Vic’s legs and against his chest, cooling sweat under a knitted throw, no need for words in a communal and comfortable silence.
But he didn’t remember falling asleep until he was waking up, melted and warm and lazy tucked up against Vic’s chest and in Vic’s arms.
He made a drowsy sound, yawning and peering one eye open, expecting to see Vic passed out with his head against the arm of the sofa—but he was awake, eyes open, fixed somewhere distant beyond the glass walls, the set of his mouth drawn and thoughtful. Amani lingered on him for a moment, then braced a hand against his stomach and pushed himself up, rubbing at his eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep here.”
Vic’s gaze cleared, shifting to Amani, and he offered a small smile. “It’s okay.”
“What time is it?”
“Four AM, give or take.”
Amani pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, thank goodness.” He wouldn’t miss his morning classes. “Why are you awake?”
“I’m not good at sleeping, really.” Vic trailed his fingers against a few loose locks of Amani’s hair, teasing against his skin feather-light as he brushed them back, regarding him with quiet winter-blue eyes. “Do you want an early breakfast? I can make something.”
Amani half-smiled, shifting to sit up and free Vic from his weight, pulling the throw up to wrap it around his naked body. “No five-star chefs to cook every meal for you?”
“Nope.” Vic levered himself up and dipped to retrieve his boxer-briefs and jeans, stepping into them fluidly—though there was no hiding the wince as he pulled them up over his cock, and he left the button and zipper undone, denim hanging rakishly below the band of his underwear. “I actually don’t like having people in here. So I learned to cook for myself. I’m not half bad at it.”