LAY YOUR HANDS ON ME
The property we’ve found ourselves on is enormous, and by the time we find the stables, the sky is turning a worrying shade of orange. It’s happening again. We’re running out of time, and it feels like we just arrived.
We must be on the grounds of some pretty impressive landed gentry, because the stables are about fifty times the size of my London flat. We can only hope no one’s coming to bring the horses in soon. Maybe they’ll leave them out to graze all night.
We wind our way to the back of the stables, where we discover a ladder leading up to a hayloft. One by one, we make it up into the comparatively warm and sunny space, even if the sunlight now… it’s almost textured. Its rays are thick and warm in a way I’ve never experienced.
August takes his sweater off, his shirt too, and lays them out on a hay bale to dry, so I do the same.
Jon offers me his shirt, and it does look warm. But the smell of him feels wrong. There’s only one man I want to be wrapped up in. Shashi and Amber, on the other hand, happily accept Jon and Assassin August’s warm and dry clothes before laying their own out in the sun to dry too.
It must be somewhere in the mid-afternoon. We started the day on bread and beer, witnessed an execution, walked miles, got shot at and chased, and now we all just sit here, exhausted and stupefied, while we wait for this world to die around us.
Assassin August is the first to speak after a long silence. “If you all want to rest, I’ll keep watch. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
“You have a sleep too,” says Jon. “I’ll do it.” He’s sporting the sort of dark shadows under his eyes that, last week, would have given him a breakdown before a show. It’s so unlike him to be the one making the sacrifice. He’s used to the world dancing to his tune. But he doesn’t even give August time to argue. He flips the hatch in the roof and climbs out to watch the sun sicken and fail.
Assassin August stares at the wooden floorboards for all of three seconds before he chases after him, two sets of boots meeting on the roof over our heads.
“I’ll take that offer,” says Shashi. She and Amber stumble to the edge of the barn and arrange some hay bales to make a sort of wall, then disappear on the other side of it, talking quietly.
That leaves August and me alone, somewhat, in our own corner of the hayloft, with one little wooden window cut into the wall to look out on this strange world.
Shadows lengthen across the meadow, the sun setting too fast, or the air not carrying the shadows as they should. August’s busy making us a little den. It doesn’t look remotely comfortable, but I don’t care. His efforts are sweet and thoughtful, and when he lies down, he takes the brunt of the scratchy hay against his naked back, holding out an arm for me to lie my head on his chest.
It’s an offer I positively scramble to accept.
We lie there for a while, watching dust float in the orange haze. I can’t sleep. All I can think about is once it’s dark, howwill we know the world is fading? Is there a full moon coming? Would the dimming of the stars alert us in here? Has that already happened? Can Jon and August stay awake up there?
Time passes slowly, anxiety throbbing through me, and after maybe half an hour, or an hour, I hear Shashi’s sigh, her telling Amber she can’t sleep either, and the two of them going up on the roof with August and Jon.
August’s head tilts, and he drops a kiss on my forehead. I’d hoped he at least was getting some rest. I run a hand up to his cheek, stroke his something-o’clock shadow.
When will we ever shave again? Wash again? Eat again? The food he packed must have gotten lost in the river. Though I guess we did technically get washed in the stream, more or less.
August’s skin is still cool, even in the soft sunlight, and a little shiver ripples over him. I shift my hand to his biceps to warm him, stretching my arms over his chest as widely as possible so I can be his blanket.
Another kiss falls on my hair. Then another. I tilt my head up to catch the next. Soft. Gentle. Loving. Then lengthening. Just his lips at first, small pecks.
But I don’t want to stop.
And he doesn’t stop.
Kisses and more kisses until I’m not cold anymore. Until I feel my strength returning, wanting more of him.
My tongue sweeps his lower lip once, then again to be met by his. The caress of his hand on my stomach is tentative at first, a trail of fingertips, like he needs the touch but isn’t sure I do too. I lean into him, giving him the message. His hand splays out over the muscles of my abdomen, massaging over every one, crushingly reverent.
His hand wanders down and down, and just when I think he’s about to finally put it where I really need it, he sweeps fingertips featherlight along my firm shaft, then onto my thigh.
I grind against his hip, seeking the friction he won’t give me, while he grins against my lips.
“Don’t be cruel,” I whisper.
His tongue lashes against mine. “I’d say I like it when you’re needy, but I don’t think you’ve ever gone long enough.”
“It feels like years,” I complain, bucking forward against him again.
“Shhhhh,” he whispers, kissing a tiny trail over my hungry lower lip. “If you make any noise, they’ll all be down here.” I bite my lip when he takes a firm hold of my dick. “Then I’ll have to stop.”
