Chapter 7

He said, “You like watching me, don’t you? Getting it all over you—getting you filthy with it, my sweet eager boy—” Jeremiah bit a lip sharply. His eyes were wet too. Cade cupped his own cock, fucked himself with the weight inside him, rocked back and forth into the feel of it, the drowning radiance of it. Release came like a plucked lute-string, throbbing with reprieve, spilling itself into heady notes. Splashes painted Jeremiah’s stomach, chest, even throat: covered in him.

Enraptured, languorous, magnanimous, he murmured, “You can,” and Jeremiah groaned and pushed up into him and came, wet heat pulsing inside him, pouring forth.

Cade slid off him after a moment, finding bed-space, stretching. Jeremiah got up gingerly and found towels and water. This had become routine as well: Cade collapsed into a sated sticky heap and let himself be cleaned and pampered. Jeremiah came back and turned himself into a bulwark, a harbor, a curve of solid warm muscle for Cade to nestle in against.