[ Ray's hands and Ray's teeth and Ray's little gasp of pain or shock or delight--he couldn't be sure. Fraser drank in all of the sensations eagerly, and reassured himself that this was only the first time, that he'd get to feel these feelings over and over again.
Where Ray's fingers slid incrementally along the ridges of his spine, Fraser shuddered, and there...there, where his partner's fingers had found it before, was the stretched bubble of still itchy skin that concealed beneath it a single nine millimeter round. He gasped against Ray's skin, bringing his free hands up - both of them - to wring in his partner's hair, kneading and scratching because he remembered that Ray liked that. It was probably the gel, he thought, though there was none of it in there now; Ray had used Thatcher's shower that morning, and all the grainy flecks he'd sent raining down as he broke apart the structure with his fingers last night were gone. Ray's lovely spiky hair was now dry and limp. But that was okay, Fraser was making a good mess of it again now.
Ray's blunt white teeth ran against his jaw, and that was wonderful, but they were nothing to the words - filthy perfect words - with images and consequences that swam into being in a single resounding thought. Fraser moaned helplessly, snapped his hips upward against Ray's in a jerk of movement that almost made him lose his balance entirely, and dropped his hands down to grab handfuls of the other man's strong shoulders instead.
It was dirty, it was terrible, it was...a wonderful, exciting, thrilling idea. And when had he become so depraved, or had he always been this way? Was it just Ray who made him want the world, as though the very fact that the variations of how and where were suddenly open to him like a smorgasbord of sex, made him want it all, all at once - no matter how unrealistic - and damn all the consequences. The fact that they'd made it to an actual bed in the first twenty-four hours was probably a miracle, because Fraser wanted to fuck on Thatcher's desk, on the hood of Ray's car, on an airplane, in a sleeping bag, on a dogsled, on ice skates, in his father's stupid imaginary office, in the men's room at the 2-7, at the top of the Sears tower, a mountain, on a sailing ship and a submarine--and he wanted to do all of them at the same time.
He dug his nails in. He was murmuring, as it turned out, telling Ray all the places he wanted to do it as well as Thatcher's desk, putting voice to all the thoughts in his head, and then since he couldn't take it any more he was stepping back, pulling Ray on top of him as he toppled back on the bed. ]
Ray-- [ He whispered quickly, after he was done with "--in Ottawa", and he scratched a path down Ray's back, trying to illustrate his need. ] --If you open all your gifts this slowly, Christmas will last until January 4th.
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Where Ray's fingers slid incrementally along the ridges of his spine, Fraser shuddered, and there...there, where his partner's fingers had found it before, was the stretched bubble of still itchy skin that concealed beneath it a single nine millimeter round. He gasped against Ray's skin, bringing his free hands up - both of them - to wring in his partner's hair, kneading and scratching because he remembered that Ray liked that. It was probably the gel, he thought, though there was none of it in there now; Ray had used Thatcher's shower that morning, and all the grainy flecks he'd sent raining down as he broke apart the structure with his fingers last night were gone. Ray's lovely spiky hair was now dry and limp. But that was okay, Fraser was making a good mess of it again now.
Ray's blunt white teeth ran against his jaw, and that was wonderful, but they were nothing to the words - filthy perfect words - with images and consequences that swam into being in a single resounding thought. Fraser moaned helplessly, snapped his hips upward against Ray's in a jerk of movement that almost made him lose his balance entirely, and dropped his hands down to grab handfuls of the other man's strong shoulders instead.
It was dirty, it was terrible, it was...a wonderful, exciting, thrilling idea. And when had he become so depraved, or had he always been this way? Was it just Ray who made him want the world, as though the very fact that the variations of how and where were suddenly open to him like a smorgasbord of sex, made him want it all, all at once - no matter how unrealistic - and damn all the consequences. The fact that they'd made it to an actual bed in the first twenty-four hours was probably a miracle, because Fraser wanted to fuck on Thatcher's desk, on the hood of Ray's car, on an airplane, in a sleeping bag, on a dogsled, on ice skates, in his father's stupid imaginary office, in the men's room at the 2-7, at the top of the Sears tower, a mountain, on a sailing ship and a submarine--and he wanted to do all of them at the same time.
He dug his nails in. He was murmuring, as it turned out, telling Ray all the places he wanted to do it as well as Thatcher's desk, putting voice to all the thoughts in his head, and then since he couldn't take it any more he was stepping back, pulling Ray on top of him as he toppled back on the bed. ]
Ray-- [ He whispered quickly, after he was done with "--in Ottawa", and he scratched a path down Ray's back, trying to illustrate his need. ] --If you open all your gifts this slowly, Christmas will last until January 4th.