This time around, Mal made faster work of Griff’s buckle and buttons. There was so much heat between them they didn’t even need to tend the fire. As he deepened their next kiss, his tongue sliding against Griff’s, the foreman impatiently grabbed the hem of his shirt and started to peel it away with his good arm.
Mal tried to help by wiggling out of his shirt, wincing only once or twice at some unpleasant twinges in his side in the process. And though his skin was warm, even hot to the touch, a shiver ran through him as he was bared to the night.
“Fuck,” Griff mouthed as they broke back from another breathless kiss. Whether it was a prayer, a curse, an invitation, or all things in one seemed to be left open to Mal’s interpretation. Maybe there were some good curses, after all.
“Not just yet. But maybe, if you’re good,” Mal whispered teasingly, satisfying them both for now—or perhaps only stoking the fire—by rubbing himself slowly against Griff until he was sure they were both leaking from the friction, until Griff’s panting became too loud and he had to force himself to stop because he realized his thigh was twitching and he was near to bursting from the pressure of Griff pressed against him like this.
Regaining focus after a few heavy breaths, he blazed a trail of hot kisses along Griff’s body that started on his chest and moved with intentional slowness down toward his navel. “Good work gets rewarded. And you want to win the Quiet Game, don’t you?”
Griff nodded, exhaling a little noisily, like he was fighting back a moan.
As Mal continued those kisses, he left one hand close to Griff’s cheek, almost as if to stroke it—but really it was lying inwait, ready to muffle any unexpected sounds if Griff suddenly lost their game in the midst of an escalating stream of pleasures. His breathing was already growing increasingly ragged the farther south Mal’s lips traveled.
“That’s right,” he whispered in encouragement as he licked and teased his way down the foreman’s body. “Just like I thought. Good boy, Griff. So fucking good for me.”
Gazing up from between Griff’s legs with a sly grin, Mal made a few swipes with his tongue up the other man’s thigh, deliberate brushes of his nose and lips sending Griff sprawling back against the bedroll. When Mal added the fingers of his better hand as well, dragging lightly over places where the skin was thinnest, Griff grabbed at handfuls of the grass, which Mal took as a sign that he was heading in the right direction. And went lower still.
Gently pushing Griff’s cheeks apart, he flicked his tongue between them, soft licks and kisses given right against his entrance, an experiment—curious to see if Griff would open for him like this. And, just as he hoped, he did. Mal pushed the tip of his tongue inside, another new taste, sharper and wilder but still right somehow.
Griff tensed beneath him as he tried to hold in yet more noises, now using the hand of his good arm to stroke Mal’s hair.
Mal thrust his tongue inside a few times in response to those fingers in his hair, but then—deeming the other man too close already, just from this—he retreated with a parting kiss. But not going far. He swallowed Griff as deep as he could, letting him nearly into the back of his throat without gagging this time, building up to a rhythm that had Griff watching the stars wheeling overhead in openmouthed wonder.
Mal lightly squeezed Griff’s thigh with his good hand, drawing the leaf-green eyes he loved to watch back to his—and once their stares were locked, Mal managed to tilt his head backenough to take another inch in before he reached a new limit. Once there, he made a few strokes with his tongue that had Griff making the most delicious, delicate whimpers too soft to wake the undead.
When Mal used some of the spit already slicking the way to push a finger inside him too, soon working in a second, Griff whispered on a ragged breath, “I can’t decide … if this is going to inspire … a poem … or a song.”
Mal hoped all that time spelunking in the back of his throat might inspire a literary masterpiece.
It did, at least, draw a few more words from Griff on the faintest breath. “I’m gonna—Mal—” But then the light in his eyes shifted, a smile tugging at his lips as he asked just as softly, “Can I? Come? I need to come.”
“Oh yeah?” It took only a second for Mal to guess the rules of this new game, grinning around his mouthful as he indulgently stroked the insides of Griff’s thighs, enjoying the sounds of the soft pleas against his ears and all too willing to slip into the role made for him here. Griff must have to work so hard to always stay in control, watching himself around the bottle, trying his best to be a good worker and neighbor and friend—it must be a relief to leave everything in Mal’s capable hands for a change. To let him call the shots the way he loved doing in this space that was just for the two of them.
“How bad?” Mal asked lowly, his voice full of understanding.
“Sobad, gods, the mouth on you …” Griff whispered, running a hand through Mal’s hair. “But you’re going to have to swallow. So you don’t choke.” Then, more urgently, “Please, Mal, can I—?”
Mal squeezed Griff’s thigh again, signaling his permission. Then Griff did cry out, the tensing of his body giving Mal at least a half second’s warning to press that bandaged hand against his mouth and somewhat muffle the sound.
It was Mal’s name he gasped as he briefly left his body, and Mal’s name he repeated as he seemed to return to himself, using his good arm to draw Mal against his chest and share the warmth that was rolling off their flushed bodies.
He did it so sweetly, if loudly, that Mal decided to overlook the way he had momentarily forgotten the rules of their game.
But they worked out a new way to communicate without another word as Mal pressed his hardness against Griff’s thigh, reminding him of what he wanted next: deeper kisses formoreandyes, I want you inside meand lighter kisses fornot yetorgo slower.
The vial of oil Griff dug from his pack and held between his teeth like some kind of retriever—cooking oil, because no one had planned on getting any on this trip, but it would do—spoke for itself.
So did Mal’s silent laughter as he eyed the glassware and mouthed, “Fancy.” Then he slicked up his fingers and worked them into the man before him with deliberate slowness and care, stretching and stroking all the way up to three before Griff deepened their kisses again to signal what he wanted next.
Mal took his time pushing into him even then, struggling to find angles to move where he didn’t feel the constant pull on his stitches—but once he was all the way inside Griff, kissing him with each slow rock of his hips deeper into him, he at least forgot the pain for a while, other parts of him burning with a fire more urgent than the one in his side.
When they moved together like this, Mal thought he was finally beginning to understand something about what it meant to be gentle. Gentle was soft kisses to Griff’s cheeks, his neck, the corners of his mouth as he felt the clench of Griff all around him; it was sliding their palms together, learning the shapes of the scars there, feeling every contour of their joining and how right each one was.
Gentle was going slow enough to feel the length of Griff’s hair sliding between his fingers.
Gentle was tracing a careful path along the scar below Griff’s navel for the first time, like he had some right to be here, with this body, with this man. As if fighting so hard to earn Griff’s safety somehow erased the stain of planning that attack.
Gentle was listening to every heated breath, drinking them in, and knowing Griff was taking him in with just as much intention.
