DeShaun regards my hand distrustfully, as though I’m holding a bomb. I don’t move a muscle, just letting him get comfortable with the idea that I’m really not going anywhere. Little by little the tension in his body releases. He looks down at my hand again, and it’s as though I’m offering something much more precious. He takes it, and I touch my forehead to his, slowly bringing my lips to his. He meets my kiss with a warm pressure, and I whimper, pushing the ottoman aside as I shift to my knees, erasing the distance between the two of us. I deepen the kiss and wrap my arms around him.
He cups my face and leans in as I stretch up, our lips meeting again. Quickly our breath speeds up and his little satisfied moans are fucking with my head. His lips trail along my jaw and the ridge of my ear, nipping as he goes.
I whisper, “Please stop pushing me away. It hurts.”
He gasps at my words and draws his head back, peering into my eyes. I can only hope that he sees the truth. The pain and fear vibrate through his body. “What if I fuck it up? What if I think I can, but I can’t? I don’t wanna keep on hurting you.”
“If pain is unavoidable, then at least let me touch you.”
He bites his lips, giving my words thought.
He kisses me again and, tentatively at first, runs his hands through my hair, gripping it at the root, releasing, skating his fingers over to a different area on my scalp, and gripping again. He loved my long hair, but I think he likes this too.
I angle my head like a cat, needy for contact, the grip-and-release undoing me. Finally, unable to wait for another second, I stand and offer him my hand. He stares at it then gazes up at my eyes, my smile. He leans over and grabs his cane, leaning heavily on it as he maintains an iron grip on my hand.
“I don’t know that I’ll be any good to you tonight anyway. I…” he pauses, looks at me. “I don’t want to tell you that I had a bad dream last night, but that’s my reality. And then I spent all evening on my feet at the gallery.”
I adjust so we’re face-to-face. “Honestly, at this point, if I can just lie in bed beside you, I’ll be a happy man. We don’t have to do anything tonight. But you’re not allowed to pull away from me.”
Smiling, he shakes his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment, and when he opens them, I find the light inside. He then looks at me with an arched eyebrow and imperious smirk. “I believe I was promised an orgasm. I plan to collect on that.”
I lean in and kiss him, noticing that he’s kissing me back with more enthusiasm than before. “Then stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling.” He grabs my hand again and tugs me toward his bedroom, chuckling to himself.
With his hand warm in mine, I finally exhale. Something I’ve been needing to do for a long, long time.
Once in his room, airy and beautifully appointed with dark wood and white linens, we stand there, awkward next to his modern four-poster bed. Needing something to do, I pull up the hem of my T-shirt and tug it over my head. DeShaun sets his cane aside and takes off his button-down, revealing miles of muscle. I kiss him, pulling his warm skin against mine. My fingers skim his belly, then his waist, the skin deeply ridged.
I smile, making out with him as he runs his hand over my chest, tracing my many black-and-gray tattoos, lingering on my neck before intensifying the kiss. DeShaun pulls back and clears his throat. I take off the rest of my clothes, stroking myself as I wait for him. Grabbing the nearest bed post for balance, he pulls down his pants and underwear.
Even though I think I know what to expect, I suck in a breath. To see the full blast pattern that fans out across his body, sparing nothing between his knees and his waist… I would do anything to have prevented this kind of damage.
His skin pulls against itself and looks so painful. I finally allow myself to look at his cock, half-mast. I wince as I examine the crown, about a third of that gorgeous, beautiful ridge lost to the blast. My fingers graze his sac, and I realize that he only has one testicle.
“Burned skin loses its elasticity. They used skin grafts, but it still gets painful if I get harder than this,” he says self-consciously, covering himself with his hands.
"Which is why you use a cage,” I say, gently moving his hands away from his body. “So you don’t get too hard and overstretch your skin.”
He nods, searching my face. He won’t find any sympathy or hero worship here. Just acceptance.
And love. All of the love.
"Can I touch you?"
He nods. “I know that the head looks a little messed up, but I’ve still got plenty of sensitivity."
I hum noncommittally. “Can I use my mouth on you?"
He freezes, and I put my hands up, leaning back. “If that’s going to cause pain, then absolutely not.”
“It’s just…I won’t be able to stop myself from becoming too hard. I…I want you to, but I do need to put on the cage if you’re going to go down on me.”
I close one eye, trying to picture it.
“Question. How can I go down on you if you’re caged?” I ask, my cheeks flaming. I’ve never played with a cage before, and I’m feeling a little off-center.
He bites his lip and leans over, opening the drawer to his nightstand. He withdraws a box and opens it.Huh.
