“I kind of feel like nature had a little color commentary for my big confession,” he said sheepishly. “And she didn’t approve.”
Fox flinched, pushing loose strands of wet hair back from his face. “You...you...”
You love me, he tried to say.
But he couldn’t seem to get the words out.
He didn’t need to, because Summer went quiet, bowing his head, but still watching him with that hopeful gaze. “Yeah,” he said thickly. “I do. I love you, Fox.”
Being loved shouldn’t feel like heartbreak.
And Fox knew exactly how broken he was, now, that he couldn’t say those words back.
Couldn’t say anything to them at all.
Couldn’t find his voice past the shattering, cracking feeling inside him, and so...
Rather than speak, Fox kissed him.
Lingering, slow, he kissed him as if this was the first time and would be the last; as if he had to make this kiss count for every kiss he might never know again in the future. He tasted every tiny crease in Summer’s lips, pressed his teeth gently against the soft giving flesh of his mouth, suckled softly at his lower lip and stole inside where Summer always seemed filled with some intoxicant that rode his breath and slipped into Fox and took him over until his senses were full of Summer and only Summer.
He didn’t have words for these feelings inside him. He couldn’t stand words for them, when words would make them real. Real enough to hurt. Real enough to be torn away, to become something fragile he could break or crush or ruin the same way he kept ruining those soft feelings Summer dashed against Fox’s walls again and again.
No...he couldn’t tell Summer what he felt.
So he showed him.
With every kiss, every slow deep exploration of yielding lips, he tried to show him. With every touch, every tracery of Fox’s fingertips over Summer’s pulse-pounding throat, over his shoulders, the shivering sensitive spots Fox had memorized over his chest and ribs and stomach, with that suntanned skin gliding so hot and firm beneath his fingertips, with Summer shuddering and sighing out his pleasure as their flesh made friction and charged kinetic energy shivered between them like static... Fox tried to say what he couldn’t say.
That Summer’s love was too good for Fox.
But that Fox was too needy, too greedy to reject it.
He didn’t know when he’d become so desperate for this beautiful strange summer child of a man, but somehow Summer had become a compulsion, pulling on him in ways that made him feel like his blood moved to Summer’s rhythm, his body drawn to his magnetism. The way Summer sighed and melted for him, so luxuriously pliant as Fox kissed him, one step at a time, into the bedroom...
How could he give himself so sweetly to someone who gave nothing back at all?
And so Fox tried to give.
In his own way, he tried to give, tumbling Summer back to the bed, stripping him in a fevered rush until that sensuously compact, tightly muscled body lay bare beneath him, touching every inch of him until he knew how Summer tasted in the hollow of his throat, the peak of his collarbone, the flat round circle of his nipple, the tight skin of his inner thigh, the sensitive underside of his wrist. Fox tasted him everywhere, mapped his body with his tongue, savored when Summer whispered his name, when he dug his fingers into Fox’s hair, when he spread his thighs until he was a portrait of beautifully luscious obscenity, when he betrayed an erogenous zone with an arch of his back and a shudder of his hips and his hard, straining cock leaking clear, tart-scented wetness from the tip, splattering against the fluxing ridges of his toned belly.
Irresistible.
Enthralling.
And Fox only hoped Summer could feel how beautiful Fox found him in every touch of lips, of hands...of desperate fingers that sought out Summer’s heat from within, that touched him just to feel how tight he gripped as Fox plunged and twisted and sought inside Summer’s body with wet-slicked fingers; he was so hot inside, like he was trying to melt Fox into him, and the way he threw his head back, the way he twined his arms together over his head and rocked his hips up into every slow thrust, the way he made those needy keening sounds when Fox slowed down to deny him then thrust hard to give him satisfaction the moment he seemed on the verge of breaking...lovely. So lovely the way Summer gave himself up with such bliss, such abandon, putting himself so wholly in Fox’s hands that Fox could have done anything to him, he thought, and Summer would welcome it no matter what.
When all Fox wanted...
All Fox wanted was to love him without feeling like he was too broken to even try without leaving Summer as empty and hollow and shattered as himself.
Please, he thought as he gathered Summer’s thighs around his hips, as he kissed his name from Summer’s honeysuckle-dripping lips, as he lifted that receptive body into his own, as he found that perfect point of heat and buried himself, melted himself, sank himself into the tight-slick fire of Summer’s flesh. Pleasure was more than pleasure, his flesh almost an afterthought of building, coiling tension when his heart was tearing itself apart, ripping itself open, destroying itself in violent shredding beats that rushed in rhythm with their flowing bodies.
As if the only way he knew how to give himself to Summer was to break himself.
And put those fragile, shattered, jagged-edged pieces into those tender hands.
Again and again, losing himself in the sheer drugging immersion that was Summer, drowning himself in the pleasure of his cries, of his grasping hands, of his rushing breaths, of his needy flesh that tried to devour Fox whole and sucked him in deeper, deeper, until his thighs turned weak and his knees shook with the sheer erotic intensity of it and Fox hardly recognized his own voice, calling out
