Branson had laid a folded sheet out in the center of the bed, and Tarius spotted two new objects on the bedside table: a hand towel and a blue bottle, the print too small to read. Branson walked to the dresser and turned on a CD player. The disk whirred to life, and a gentle melody filled the room. Flutes and piano, and he wasn’t sure what else, only that it was calming.
“Since neither of us wanted to do a traditional honeymoon, I thought about what sort of gift I could give you,” Branson said, his chin trembling with nerves, almost bashful in a way that was ten kinds of endearing. “I thought a nice, long massage would do?”
“Yes, please.” Tarius loved massages, and he’d paid for them multiple times in the past to de-stress and feel physically close to another person, without that closeness deviating into sex. “A massage sounds perfect.”
“Good.” Branson grinned then wiggled his eyebrows. “You probably want to change into a pair of gym shorts, though. I don’t want to get the massage oil all over your work clothes.”
Tarius chuckled. “Good idea.”
He pulled a pair of cotton shorts out of his dresser drawer, and he wasn’t surprised that Branson had left the room. They’d seen each other in various stages of dress since living together, but they still hadn’t gotten to the “watch each other pee” or “share a shower” stage of their relationship. Tarius wanted to be comfortable being naked around his partner one day; they were still working on it.
Marriage had come before certain familiarities.
He stretched out on his back in the middle of the bed and folded both arms behind his head, anticipation tightening his stomach. This was his first massage from a committed romantic partner, rather than a friend, or a paid stranger. The first time someone he loved dearly was putting their hands on his body with the sole intention of creating pleasure for Tarius. Real, nonsexual pleasure as a show of love and respect.
The sort of physicality he’d always craved.
Branson returned to the room with a glass of water, which he put on the bedside table next to Tarius’s wine. “I talked to Rei again,” Branson said, “and he said the body releases toxins during massages, so you’re supposed to drink water.”
“That’s true and very thoughtful, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I take off my shirt, too?”
“Of course not.”
With a tender smile, Branson whipped his t-shirt off and put it on the dresser. He wasn’t as fussy about wrinkles in his clothes as Tarius, and Tarius had no desire to change that endearing quirk in his husband. They each were who they were, and that was how they fit together so well.
“Turn onto your stomach, then close your eyes and enjoy, babe,” Branson said huskily. “I’ll make you feel good.”
Tarius did as asked, settling with his head turned to the left, arms by his sides, and shut his eyes. Let the music fill his mind with its soothing melodies. Plastic snapped. The bed dipped. Then the familiar slick sound of oil being rubbed on palms.
“I’m going to start with your shoulders,” Branson whispered.
“M’kay.”
Warm hands pressed into Tarius’s shoulders, first the heels, followed by the fingers, the touch smoothed by the oil. Light fragrances of cedar and vanilla teased Tarius’s nostrils, and he sighed.
The massage was everything he wanted. Tender strokes across his back and ribs. Firmer presses into his shoulders and spine. Warming touches along his arms and waist, pressing without digging. This wasn’t a deep-tissue massage, it was relaxation and comfort. The first time Branson’s erection brushed his hip, Tarius smiled because he was hard, too. Difficult not to be when his body felt so wonderful, so free to exist in this safe space with someone who would never demand or take.
When Branson asked, Tarius had a little trouble rolling onto his back, because his limbs were jelly. Even his legs, which Branson mostly avoided, because Tarius was incredibly ticklish around his knees and feet. Branson resumed massaging his shoulders and chest and stomach. Arms and, this time, all the way to his fingertips, leaving his hands pleasantly loose. Tarius caught himself dozing once, and he jerked awake when Branson wiggled a finger in his navel.
Tarius hooted laughter and caught Branson’s tickling hand. “Watch it, Cross,” he teased.
“Can’t have my subject falling asleep on me.”
“You’re too good at this. I might go right to bed after.”
Branson leaned down and kissed him. “Now that’s a high compliment.”
“Well deserved. Can we hold each other? Or will this oil stain the sheets?”
“It’s the kind that absorbs, so you can take a shower later, if you want.” He helped Tarius sit up, then gave him the water to sip. Tarius hadn’t even realized how parched he was until the cool water passed his lips.
After some silent, comfortable maneuvering, they were cuddled up together beneath the covers, the ambient music still playing, their erections present but not inconveniently so. Still…Tarius couldn’t help asking, “Do you want to get off?”
Branson rubbed his nose into Tarius’s neck. “Nah. I like this better. You?”
“I’m good.” He traced heart shapes on Branson’s bare chest, joyful and thankful to have found this beautiful, younger beta man who understood him. Who treasured him as a human being, and not a sexual organ to play with at leisure. For being unequivocally himself in all things. “I love you.”
