Page 65 of Keep

Chad breathed out a laugh and pressed the rest of the way in. Held still. Hank’s body clenched around him in involuntary pulses, and Chad had to close his eyes and think about nothing for a second.

He started to move. Long strokes, slow, giving Hank the full feel of it. Hank’s sounds shifted—from tight and careful to something deeper, more open. His hips started moving to Chad’s rhythm.

“Harder,” Hank said.

Chad gave him harder.

“Yes—”

The headboard tapped the wall. Chad gripped Hank’s hips and drove into him, and the sounds coming out of Hank were nothing the man would have recognized as his own—graceless, honest, loud.

“Chad—can we⁠—”

“What?”

“I want to see you.” Strained but sure. “I want to see your face.”

Chad pulled out carefully. Hank rolled onto his back—flushed, chest heaving, cock hard and leaking against his furry belly—and looked up at Chad with nothing guarded in his expression at all.

“Like this,” Hank said. He lifted his legs, then hesitated. “Can I put my legs on your shoulders—I’m not exactly light.”

“Hank. I haul kegs for a living. Get your legs up.”

Hank put his legs on Chad’s shoulders, still looking uncertain about the engineering of it, and Chad pushed back into him in one slow stroke and watched the uncertainty vanish.

“Oh.”

“Better?”

“The angle—that’s—oh.”

Chad found a rhythm. Slower now, deeper. Face to face with nowhere for either of them to hide. Hank’s eyes were bright—not crying, just full. His hand came up to Chad’s face. Chad turned his head and kissed his palm.

Don’t say it. Too soon. You’ll spook him and you’ll spook yourself and⁠—

He didn’t say it. Just moved. Hank’s legs tightened on his shoulders. Hank’s hands found his back, pulling him closer.

“Close,” Hank managed. “I’m⁠—”

“Me too.” Chad reached between them and wrapped his hand around Hank—hard, wet, neglected—and stroked in time.

Hank came first. Back arching, legs clenching, a sound Chad was going to hear late nights for the rest of his life. The tightening of Hank’s body pulled Chad over right behind him, and he buried deep and let go.

Slow return. Breathing. The Debussy had stopped. The apartment was quiet except for them.

Chad eased out. Dealt with the condom. Dropped onto his back next to Hank and stared at the ceiling.

Hank hadn’t moved. One arm across his eyes. Chest rising and falling.

“Alive?” Chad asked.

“Unclear.” A pause. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Good sign.”

Silence for a while. The good kind.

“I didn’t know—” Hank said eventually. Still looking at the ceiling. “—that it could feel like that.”