Page 89 of By Any Means

When Laurie was down to only shirt, socks, and sock-suspenders, Chary stared at him. Studied him like he would disappear, would blink out in a stutter of film.

“Hiya, Chary.”

Chary swallowed visibly. “I don’t know if this is—is—is the proper question,” he said. “Or perhaps it is the question. An answer to it. You…” He took a deep breath and tapped his berobed thighs with all ten fingers. “You know you can have all you want from me. Don’t you?”

There he goes, Laurie thought fondly. “What d’you think I want from you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anything.”

Laurie tugged his shirt off. “Faith,” he said. “That’s what I want from you.”

“Worship?” Chary’s head tilted. His gaze hovered around the sock-suspenders, of all places.

“No, you Catholic,” Laurie teased. “You want honesty, yeah? And so, I want you to believe something when I say it. Faith.”

“Oh.” Chary paused. He stepped closer. “Like f-fuck my throat and gag me?”

Laurie sat on the right-side corner of the mattress. He put one hand on the carved bedpost. “Got it.”

“What is the equivalent this time?”

Laurie’s turn for a shaky breath. He usually didn’t say it aloud but got there with gestures and implication and hand jobs aplenty when that didn’t work. Most of the time, he wanted to be fucked without making it known that he wanted it. Maintain the illusion. But that didn’t apply there. It had no bearing whatsoever.

He wanted Chary’s faith, but the truth was Chary already had his.

“I want you inside me.”

Chary didn’t look puzzled, or taken aback, or even like imagining it caused him to hitch. No halting disbelief. No jests about secret womanishness.

Surprise, maybe. His eyes widened. Awe. Wonder. “Yes,” he said. “Yes,” he said again, much deeper, and removed his robe. Holy god.

Then he was before him. He caged Laurie with arms and legs and a golden, intent stare and pressed-firm lips and flaring nose. He leaned in.

Laurie didn’t flinch. He inhaled. Chary’s lips were a shove away from his own, parting and pressing flat in gasps.

“Chary,” he said sternly.

He watched as Chary shouldered faith like a yoke. Like a tool.

Chary kissed him. Pulled his face in with two hands and bit and licked and slid his tongue where he wanted and then⁠—

—pulled back. Covered his hard-breathing mouth with a hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“I always forget I want to eat you, as well,” he said, through spiderlike fingers.

Laurie laughed. “All right, Dracula.” He slipped his thumb past Chary’s hand ’til it touched his lips. “That your secret?” Chary opened obligingly, tentatively, and Laurie felt along the sharp canines, right to left. Chary’s breath was hot and fast. “Mine, too. It’s mutual. Eat me.”

Chary pulled his hand down and Laurie’s with it. Tossed them aside. They were in the way.

Chary kissed him again. This time, he barely left them space for air and, soon, no space between their bodies. He grunted something like “Up,” and hauled Laurie to a stand against him. His hands were everywhere. They flattened Laurie in, like gaps were to be eradicated between their flesh forevermore.

Zero finesse. All smother. But if Laurie died, he died.

“Up, up, up,” Chary growled, high and breathless. He did something architectural and braced with his limbs. Laurie had a second to remember trust and faith before he was lifted high.

“Criminy.” He stared down. “I’ll tell you I’m afraid of heights. And heavy.”