Jericho’s chest rose behind him in a pleased, smug breath, the kind that always gave Atticus a flutter low in his belly.
His breath hitched as Jericho’s hands tangled in his hair, tugging until he craned his head back to reach his mouth. Atticus opened for him without thought. He tasted like Guiness. Warm, dry, familiar. It mingled with Jericho’s breath and the faint aftertaste of buttered popcorn. God, Atticus loved this man, this big, rough, relentlessly affectionate menace who kissed him like they’d been apart for years rather than hours.
He let himself get caught up in it, so easily sucked under by his husband. He never got tired of kissing him; if anything, his need only seemed to grow. Something that would have scared him five years ago.
Jericho cupped his chin, holding him in the slightly uncomfortable position, before he whispered, “You seem awfully hungry for someone who was just complaining, Freckles.”
“Start the movie, or I’m going to bed,” he countered, nipping Jericho’s bottom lip.
Jericho laughed, then hit play. Atticus frowned, staring at the screen. This was not an ‘80s horror movie. The first strains of jazz music played over the credits, but Atticus was dazzled by seeing blue skies and fields of cotton in 4k. Everything looked so vibrant. Words appeared on the screen.Clarksdale, Mississippi, 1932.He frowned as he sat up a little straighter.
“What is this?”
“Sinners.”
“It’s a horror movie?” he asked.
Jericho shrugged. “So they say. Noah recommended it. He said there was something about it he was positive you’d like.”
Atticus frowned, watching the opening scenes in confusion. Was this some kind of zombie movie? Demons? He couldn’timagine what it was that Noah thought he could possibly think was so great about?—
“Are there…two Michael B. Jordan’s?” he heard himself say out loud.
Jericho snorted, shaking his head with enough effort that Atticus felt it even without looking. “I guess Noah was right,” he said, his tone somewhere between amused and jealous.
Atticus didn’t acknowledge his pouting husband’s words, just stuffed popcorn in Jericho’s mouth, before stretching out on his belly before him, resting his chin on his palms as he locked in on the screen.
His feet swayed idly in the air as he counted down the seconds in his head. Jericho was patient in many ways, but not when it came to Atticus’s attention on other men. Even ones he’d never meet face to face.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Jericho asked, sounding just huffy enough to stir something deep inside Atticus’s belly.
“Shh,” Atticus said, doing his best to sound annoyed. “This is probably important.”
He could feel Jericho’s eyes on him.
"Is it hot in here," he asked, then wiggled out of his shirt and tossed it onto the floor, before returning to his previous pose, subtly adjusting so his back arched just so.
He shivered when he felt the bed shift slightly.
Atticus hid a smile. Yeah. They were absolutely not watching this movie to the end.
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Freckles."
He bit his lip as Jericho lifted one of Atticus’s legs, kissing his ankle, gravity dragging his pajama pants to his knee. Atticus shivered at the warmth of Jericho’s mouth contrasted with the cool air of their bedroom, every nerve ending in his calf lighting up like it remembered this exact touch. His eyelids fluttered asJericho began massaging the muscle there. Still, he pretended to give his undivided attention to the beautiful men on the screen.
Jericho slowly worked his way up his body. He used those rough hands with a gentleness that never made sense, hands that rebuilt engines for fun, kneading Atticus like he was something precious. When he hooked his fingers in Atticus’s pajama pants, he lifted his hips to help without a word, letting him strip him bare.
When his mouth skimmed the back of his knee, he said, “You remembered to lock the door, right?”
Atticus froze, then glanced toward the lock, noting it was still unguarded. “Oops.”
Jericho heaved a sigh, then extricated himself from between Atticus’s thighs, slapping his bare ass hard enough to drag a sharp gasp from him. Atticus’s toes curled, a startled, molten shock rocketing up his spine. the handprint throbbing in time with his aching cock, now trapped between his belly and the mattress.
The lock closed with a snick and then Jericho was back, laying his whole weight on top of him.
“Oops?” he asked, biting Atticus’s shoulder. The bite wasn’t hard, just enough pressure to make Atticus’s breath catch, to remind him who he belonged to. “Is that what you would have said if one of the kids walked in on us when I was balls deep inside you?”
“But they didn’t. Besides, you said we were going to watch a movie. How was I supposed to know you planned on defiling me?” he asked with a delicate sniff. “You lured me into bed under false pretenses.”
