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* * *
Cameron: I can hear you moaning through the wall, the slick sounds of your hand. (How are there not more spelling errors?)
* * *
Cameron: I heard that laugh.
* * *
Henry: Want to hear you too.
* * *
Cameron: I’m getting shy, thinking of you listening . . . But I need . . .
* * *
Henry: I’m throbbing.
* * *
Cameron: Really?
* * *
Henry: Yes. I want to kiss every inch of you until you beg me to make you come.
* * *
Cameron: When you take me deep into your mouth, I want to live in it. Want to rock gently, the moist suction of your throat squeezing my tip. Then I push you off, turn around and plead for you to take me. You enter me like you’ve always belonged there, and my ache will rub against the shower wall in time to your thrusts.
* * *
Henry: God, yes.
* * *
Henry: I hear you, now. Fuck, I’m close.
* * *
Cameron: Imagine spilling inside me. Imagine me rock hard, desperate to come. Imagine me turning you around, pressing into you, wildly thrusting until I explode inside yyhujngty
* * *
Henry: Good Lord, I came so hard.
Cameron cried out, the force of his orgasm more intoxicating than he’d ever had by hand alone. Come coated his treasure trail. His T-shirt had traveled up to his nipples. He’d kicked the sheets to his knees, and he was still semi-hard as he caught his breath.
After a jelly-limbed clean up, he threw himself back in bed, covers pulled up over his grin.
The creak and groan of Henry’s bed made him shiver. He marveled at the power of words and how they’d made Henry respond. He threw the blankets over his head, burying a series of astonished expletives. He’d finally let his words flow.
He rolled to his side. His other side. Onto his back, flipping the blankets down. He palmed his forehead.
Oh, God. I finally let my words flow.
He grabbed his phone. Wrote, deleted. Wrote, deleted. Henry came online.
Henry: Can I come over?
* * *
Cameron: Yes.
* * *
Cameron: Maybe don’t look at me?
Bedsprings, the catch of the door as it opened, feet padding over the floor. Cameron curled toward the heavy drapes, and air shifted as Henry opened the sheets.
The mattress bowed. Neither of them spoke.
Minty breath tickled his nape, and Henry shifted closer. His hot, partially dressed body—a T-shirt and boxer shorts—snuggled up behind him. The weight of his arm curved around Cameron’s waist and splayed over his chest at his pounding heart.
Henry gathered him nearer and pressed gentle lips behind his ear, at his hairline.
A shuddering sigh slipped from his lips, and Cameron let his body relax. . . .
He woke with a jerky start, remembering the night before, whacking poor Henry in the nose. Blankets pooled at his waist, dark in the grayish light of the room. He reached for the lamp.
“That one doesn’t work,” Henry said, rubbing his attacked nose. “The one on my side does.”
Cameron scrambled over him and clicked it on. An orangey glow warmed the room, and Cameron paused, suddenly aware he’d draped himself sideways over Henry’s middle, the blanket between them not enough to disguise Henry’s morning predicament.
Cameron gulped. “Sorry.”
He’d almost wriggled off when Henry palmed his hip. Big, blunt-nailed fingers straddled the waist of his briefs and his lower back.
Henry’s eyes were softly amused, kind, matching his smile. “You look wonderfully rumpled.”
“Your hair is a mess.”
Henry laughed. “Come closer.”
Cameron leaned forward hesitantly, making sure not to touch—
Henry pulled him against his chest and flipped him onto his back, scrumptious weight bearing down on him. The kiss was short and energetic. “Good morning.”
Cameron’s pulse hitched. “D-do you know what time it is? You have to get to work.”
“Syntax and grammar wait for no one.” Henry feathered a softer kiss at his nose. “You look different without your glasses.”
“Different?”
“I want to know what the rest of you looks like naked.” As quickly as he’d pinned Cameron, Henry was off him. “But that’ll have to wait until later.”
That promise of later followed Cameron like a ticklish feather to the shower and all through the manse. Gosh, he had to stop thinking about it.
He opened the door to the dining room and halted.
He must have made a wrong turn.
This small room was filled with framed pictures and a desk lit by the glow of dawn through a large arched window. He gave a start. The study.
Not as mysterious as Henry had made out, but then, he’d been exaggerating, hadn’t he?
The picture-filled walls stole his attention. Henry as a teenager, hiking; Henry and Georgie playing jump rope; Henry as a toddler on Mr. Tilney’s shoulders; Mr. Tilney carrying a laughing Georgie at ballet, pretending to dance; and Henry’s mum? Angelic, dark hair and the same twinkle in her eye as Henry’s.
So many memories. Fond. Melancholic.
