"Two hours."
"Ninety minutes."
"Deal."
We settle into the pillows, facing each other, legs tangled under the blankets. His hand is still tracing patterns on my back, and I let mine wander across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palm. The rhythm is slow, peaceful. Nothing like the racing pulse I've felt when we're fucking, when he's buried inside me, when he's losing the control he holds so tight.
"This is weird," I say.
"What is?"
"Being happy. Or whatever this is." I trace the edge of his collarbone, the sharp line of bone under warm skin. "I spent three years in a fog. Before that, I spent five years chasing stories that kept me up at night. I don't think I've ever just... been. You know? Without the fear, or the work, or the constant feeling that something terrible is about to happen."
"Something terribleisabout to happen. The Silent is hunting us. We are probably going to die. You realize that right?”
"Yeah, but right now, in this bed, with you, I don't care." I meet his eyes. "Is that crazy?"
"Probably." His hand stills on my back. "But I don't care either."
We lie there in comfortable silence. The light outside grows brighter, painting the room in shades of gold and pink. I can hear birds somewhere, and the distant sound of movement from the other part of the cabin. Jace and Elliot, probably. Making breakfast. Living their life. Being normal in a way that I'm only beginning to understand is possible.
"Can I try something?" Jagger asks.
"Depends on what it is."
"Trust me."
"Famous last words." But I nod anyway, because I do trust him. Against all logic, against all evidence, I trust him.
He pushes me gently onto my back and slides down the bed, disappearing under the covers. His hands find my hips, thumbs tracing the hollows there, the bruises from his grip that are finally starting to fade. Then his mouth is on my stomach, kissing a slow path downward.
"This isn't exactly a hardship," I say to the ceiling.
"Quiet."
He tugs my boxers down my legs, tossing them somewhere off the bed. I'm half-hard already, just from the anticipation, just from the feel of his breath against my skin. When his mouth ghosts over my cock, I feel it twitch, eager for attention.
But he doesn't touch my cock. He keeps moving, kissing along my hip bone, down to my inner thigh. His hands push my legs apart, gentle but insistent, and I let them fall open, exposing myself completely.
"Jagger, what are you—"
His mouth finds my hole.
I nearly come off the bed.
No one has ever done this to me. I've heard about it, seen it in porn, wondered what the fuss was about. Actually feeling it is something else entirely. His tongue is hot and wet, circling my rim with maddening slowness, and when he presses inside, I make a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a sob.
"Oh fuck." My hands fist in the sheets, knuckles going white. "Fuck, Jagger."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps licking, long strokes from my balls to my hole and back again. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin, rough contrast to the soft wetness of his tongue. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me spread and exposed and completely at his mercy.
I'm babbling. I know I am. Words spilling out without permission, curses and pleas and his name, over and over. He hums against me, and the vibration sends shockwaves up my spine, makes my cock jerk against my stomach.
He points his tongue and fucks me with it, pushing past the ring of muscle, and I swear I see stars. My hips try to buck, to grind down against his face, but his grip keeps me pinned. I'm completely under his control, and I've never felt more free.
"More," I gasp. "Please, more."
He gives me more. Licks deeper, works his tongue in slow circles inside me, then pulls back to suck. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building in waves that crash through me, recede, and crash again.
