Chapter 13

He licked his ear, lingering on his lobe, thrusting, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. John whispered his name. He slowed down. John reached back with his hand, searching for him, touching him, imploring him not to stop.

They were both moaning—hoarse, rambling sounds spilling out of their lips, filling the room with a rugged melody of sighs and groans. Then oblivion whitened everything.

Benjamin slowly slipped out of John, sliding next to him in the bed, spent and happy. He laid his head on his lover’s shoulder, and John turned slightly toward him, smiling. Benjamin pulled him into a warm embrace. He felt a strange, unfamiliar thrill. He recalled his prior sexual experience, with Irene; if he had to choose three words to describe it, he would say: sticky, dutiful, and adequate. Their marriage had been arranged when they were still children, and he’d always considered her more of a sister than a real wife or lover.

“Are you okay?” John asked. “You’re smiling…”