He was mortified about the state of his sheets, but he couldn’t seem to control it. The only thing to do, he concluded, was to see to matters before he slept.
He touched himself reluctantly, felt hollow and lost after it was done, but at least he stopped waking in the midst of a shuddering orgasm he didn’t want.
He stopped reading Jack’s letters so close to bedtime, and it had worked for a while. His body, however, refused to be outwitted.
Just last week, he’d started to do it again.
This morning’s dream had been particularly vivid. Beckett might as well have been there in person.
Arden had woken to the memory of Beckett’s solid weight, of his heavy body pinning Arden down. The hectic rush of blood in Arden’s ears had carried the echo of the demanding groans and growls Beckett had rumbled constantly as he drew close to his climax, and Arden released with a soft cry.
As always, it left him emptied out and restless.
Restless and yet disinclined for exercise. He opted to stay in the library with tea instead, and to doodle in his sketchbook as he sat by the fire. As he had the entire room to himself and no one to disapprove, he ignored the armchair and curled up on the rug.
It was Jack’s fault, he thought crossly.
Almost every note he sent now had Arden blushing and wide-eyed. His sleep was disturbed, his mornings came with orgasms, and instead of concentrating on his usual nature studies, he’d taken to sketching scandalous things like a strong, flexed arm, a rounded buttock, the cruel curve of a smile on a shadowed face, and beautiful lips with a mocking twist.
He was so engrossed in shading in the cobbled ridges of a tight, flat torso that he never even noticed Jack arrive.
So engrossed that he never even noticed Jack come all the way into the room, and sit in the chair not three feet away from him.
In Arden’s defence, he’d shuffled close to the cheerful hearth and the chair was off to the side and a little behind him, but still.
“Arden,” Jack said softly.
Arden slammed the sketchbook shut and looked around guiltily to find Jack sitting in the chair, his chin resting in his hand as he watched Arden.
Jack grinned. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Oh.
Arden dropped his sketchbook and pencil. He scrambled quickly on his knees over the rug and in between Jack’s boots, reaching out to set shaking hands on Jack’s thighs.
Jack leaned forward, cupped Arden’s face, and lifted it for a kiss.
It was a light, dry press, there and gone. He rubbed his thumbs gently beneath Arden’s eyes.
Arden caught hold of his wrists. “You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
They stared at each other. Arden’s cheeks were already warm from the fire; at the look on Jack’s face, they warmed further.
Jack made an interested noise and leaned down to kiss Arden again.
Arden swayed eagerly towards him, and Jack huffed a laugh against his mouth. He pecked another disappointingly quick kiss on Arden’s lips, then scooped him up and onto his lap, arranging him with ease despite Arden’s ungainly flailing and light, breathless scolding.
When he was done arranging Arden to his liking, he said, “Happy to see me?”
“Yes.”
Jack gave him a knowing look. “Have you been bored?”
“No. I missed you.”
“I missed you.” Jack slid a hand around to massage the back of Arden’s neck.
