Rowan shuddered but persisted. “The first thing that springs to mind is still… Christmas,” he said with a gentler smile. “Or maybe… fireworks?”
“Like the dazzle of twinkling lights?” Milo nodded up at the sparkle above them, squeezing Rowan’s cock a little tighter and starting to more obviously stroke.
Rowan sank from being propped up by his hands to his elbows instead, sprawling Milo forward against him. It trapped Milo’s hand and Rowan’s cock between them, but still allowed enough room for Milo’s hand to move. “Yeah. Like… happy memories… and being cozy warm and safe even when outside elements are the opposite.”
Milo imagined a snowstorm outside while he and Rowan snuggled together by a fireplace. He knew temperature difference, lighting changes, weather. He could almost feel it, the tingle of understanding, especially between his legs where he was growing harder too, bobbed up to tent the bottom of his apron, causing a circle ofwetto bleed through.
Milo used his free hand that held the fork to acquire another mixed bite. Because his other hand was occupied, however, this time, he had to contaminate both the cinnamon and lemon tubs by spearing the pie-filled fork into each to gather their flavors. He fed it once more to Rowan, whose eyes rolled back like each new bite was better than the last.
“Keep going,” Milo urged, very purposely dripping more of the steadily melting ice cream onto Rowan’s chest so he could lap it up like before.
“The lemon…” Rowan licked his lips of lingering crumbs, pie goo, and ice cream residue. “It adds brightness… like a pop of sunshine. Then the cinnamon and other spices come in again like…” He focused on Milo’s waiting stare. “Like a surprise embrace when you most need it.”
Milo blinked away the flood of moisture in his eyes, where he hadn’t expected wetness to flow. “Like… kissing under fireworks or mistletoe…?” Neither of which Milo had done before, but those things he could imagine too. He had seen plenty of examples in his romance movies, especially the Hallmark ones.
Rowan was becoming a squirming, panting mess beneath him by that point, soaking Milo’s palm, yet it seemed to help conjurewords more easily that the quiet giant usually had trouble speaking. “Yeah. Or right when the sun is rising—or setting. It’s a moment… a held breath that lingers like something monumental you could never forget.”
Milo’s nonexistent heart was pounding, and he quickly acquired another bite to feed to Rowan. When even more ice cream and a little bit of pie fell onto Rowan’s chest, Milo’s attempt to lick it up smeared it across his lips.
Rowan immediately drew Milo into a kiss, this time lickinghimclean as if to savor more of the flavors, mixed a little now with both of them.
Milo didn’t vibrate his tongue when they kissed—he’d tried once and made Rowan sneeze—but he did wonder what he tasted like to Rowan.
“Even if the next bite is the same as the last,” Rowan said, rolling his tongue around in his mouth and licking his own lips of the lingering remnants like he couldn’t get enough, “it becomes a memory that calls back to the first taste… and makes it better by being a reminder of that moment of pure magic.”
“Yes.” Magic. Was that Milo’s flavor? To the man beneath him it seemed to be, and the fluid spilled from Milo’s eyes as the fairy lights danced in Rowan’s.
Another M word, and this time a positive one.
Milo pushed the pie tin and ice cream aside, spinning Rowan to lie lengthwise on the counter, and tore Rowan’s jeans and underwear to his ankles to better align his own leaking cock when he settled atop him. He was still stroking Rowan, but now he could grind against him, moving his fingers over them both and mixing their precome like he had mixed the flavors of the pie.
“Through you, I can taste it too… I can picture it… imagine what it’s like.” Milo whined as he rode Rowan’s cock as zealouslyas if it had been inside him, heightening the friction between them.
“M-Milo!”
“I want to savor your taste with it too.” There was still some dribbled mess on Rowan’s chest that Milo’s tongue had missed, and he scooped it onto his fingers, licking the stains that remained, then brought his hand down to where his other hand stroked and let some of him and Rowan mix with the rest.
Rowan’s eyes were black, midnight pools catching the fairy lights in them like stars, like the night sky Rowan loved, and when Milo began to lick his fingers of the sordid flavors—able to ingest if not truly taste the way Rowan could—he thought he almostcouldtaste it all, just the way Rowan had described.
Rowan snatched Milo’s hand to bring his fingers to his own mouth, first licking and sucking on them, and finally spearing his tongue between Milo’s lips to combine flavors there too.
In that perfect, culminating moment, Milo was weightless, empty of everything but bliss and desire, and the tremor that tore through him tipped him to the side—right into the top of the pie, smearing it up the side of his butt cheek.
Rowan’s hands moved to Milo’s waist in the same instant to steady him, fingers digging divots into his synth-skin and sliding down his thighs, where he met the marked skin. Faster than Milo thought Rowan could be, especially with Rowan’s jeans still binding him at the ankles, the ginger giant flipped them, switching their position roughly enough that if they had been on the table instead of the island, he definitely would have overturned it.
Rowan's fingers brushed Milo's lightning scars as he steadied him, purposely, knowing they were there and holding Milo up enough that he could trace them. The pain/pleasure sensation of having them caressed made Milo's hips buck up, perfectly in time for Rowan to lick the pie smears from the side of Milo’sbuttocks. He looked like some ravenous beast with his chest heaving, shirt open but still on, as he ground Milo into the countertop. His large hands slid around to Milo’s front and up his stomach, disrupting the apron enough for Rowan to tug it down, revealing a peek of Milo’s nipples that he licked just as greedily.
Milo thrust up into Rowan, not caring that there was no penetration, just cock against cock, for there were so many ways to share these feelings, to share joy and pleasure and flavor of all things through poetic description, and he wanted to know all of them—with Rowan.
“Rowan!”
It was hot and messy and sticky, and Milo wouldn’t have changed a moment of it.
Especially not when he licked what little remained of the pie and precome from his fingers again, mostly to wet them, and reached up beneath where Rowan’s hips were pounding into him.
“Milo!” Rowan cried in kind, as Milo slid the start of two fingers inside him, and he spilled, staining the front pocket of Milo’s apron like a streak of melted ice cream.
“Yes… yes… yes!” Milo still bucked up into Rowan until he came too.
