by Kelly Jensen
Dillon greeted the diagnostic array—what looked like a dentist chair set under a streamlined MRI—with a tired sigh. “I don’t suppose you’re going to take Upero’s advice and hop in that thing yourself?”
“Nice try.” Lang’s smile felt like a smirk as he gestured toward the chair. “Up you get.”
“Please relate the nature of the injury,” Upero said.
“I can see again, mostly. Some afterimages when I blink. Mostly, I’m just tired—”
Lang cut Dillon off with a swift gesture. “Micah recommended a visit to your specialist. We are complying.”
The infusion of alien repair cells had made fundamental changes to Dillon’s DNA. He was no longer mostly human with a few abnormal markers. He was now mostly clan, and visiting a human doctor was a bad idea for a number of reasons. Upero and the technology the AI commanded aboard Lang’s ship were more than adequate for their needs, however. Lang gave a series of commands to Upero, including a scan of Dillon’s brain with a focus on his optic nerves, and the current status of his repair cells.
Dillon put his head into the collar used to keep patients immobile and submitted to the scan. Lang mentally thanked him for his cooperation. Anything else might have sent him rocketing through the ceiling and into the iceberg over their heads. While Upero worked, Lang breathed deeply. The calm he achieved had a brittle quality to it, though.
The report confirmed Dillon’s self-diagnosis. His vision had returned, and his headache was due to dehydration and fatigue—both symptoms of overtaxing his repair cells, which were performing at optimum functionality. In other words, he needed a glass of water and about eight hours of downtime—a prescription often handed out to Lang and just as often ignored.
“See? I’m fine,” Dillon said. “Now show me the smile you gave to that reporter.”
Lang’s lips twitched. He scrubbed his eyes. “Dillon—”
Dillon sat, swinging his legs to the side so they dangled from the chair, and reached for Lang’s hands. “I’m fine. Please stop blaming yourself. This could have happened anytime, anywhere. We’re lucky it hasn’t up until now.”
Lang didn’t have to ask how Dillon knew what he’d been thinking. Every day Dillon spent with him was a risk. Lang didn’t want to think that way—shouldn’t—but he couldn’t help it. Now was perhaps not the time for a relationship checkup, though. Taking Dillon’s hands into his, Lang offered an affirmative squeeze.
Dillon’s expression did not clear. He licked his lips, opened his mouth, faltered, and then asked, “We’re still good, right?”
Are my doubts that obvious? “What do you mean?”
Dillon tugged a hand free and gestured toward his face, fingers flicking out to indicate his purple hair and many piercings. “I know I’m not exactly—”
“My concern has nothing to do with our relationship. Your appearance has always appealed to me. I have told you this, haven’t I?”
Many times. But he knew Dillon only ever saw gawky and weird in the mirror.
Lang caressed Dillon’s fingers and searched for a truth he could share. “I’m worried about the interview I agreed to give. I feel as though I was tricked into it.”
Dillon frowned. “Then why did you take that guy’s card?”
“It seemed the best solution at the time. You were hurt, and I wanted to get you home.”
“Call him and cancel, then. What’s the worst he could do?”
Sighing, Lang dropped Dillon’s hand and nodded toward the hatch. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”
Dillon hopped off the chair and leaned into him, pressing a kiss to the side of Lang’s mouth. “Yes. Now take me to bed.”
“I advise you both to drink at least eight fluid ounces of water before you retire,” Upero said. “Sixteen would be better.”
Chuckling, Dillon lifted his gaze skyward. “Good night, Upero.”
“Good night, Dillon.”
Lang led the way through the shimmering doorway and back to Manhattan. Tomorrow would be soon enough to take up his worries—after the recommended sleep.
Dillon was having the best dream. Hands skimmed across his bare back, smoothing into the dip above his ass and then down, over his buttocks, the touch light and warm. It should tickle, but it didn’t, because he knew these hands. Loved the attention they lavished upon him, and the deep affection of their touch—a warmth felt through his skin and bones, all the way to an essential part of himself that didn’t appear on anatomy charts. Intermingled with the affection were strains of joy and serenity, as though together, he and Lang made music.
The press of palm to skin started again at the top of his back and drifted down, heavier this time, and paused as fingers cupped the lower curve of his backside. A moan tickling his chest, Dillon raised his hips, inviting a more intimate touch. The hand disappeared, alighting again at the top of his back. Every downward stroke made him want to arch and purr. He’d lift his hips then grind them forward. Dillon spread his legs. By the time he realized he wasn’t dreaming, he was so hard it hurt, and the undulation of his hips had become a series of short thrusts.
“Please,” he breathed into the pillow, arching his back as Lang’s hand molded the curve of his ass again, fingers drifting close to his crease, but not close enough.
A soft chuckle brushed the back of Dillon’s neck. The mattress barely shifted as Lang moved closer. He had one of those memory foam things that cushioned every movement.
Dillon really liked Lang’s mattress. He liked the way Lang teased him a little bit more, though.
Lang’s next stroke curved under Dillon’s ass, fingertips teasing his balls. Moaning, he lifted his hips, spreading his legs farther apart.
“So eager,” Lang crooned at his ear.
“You love it.”
“I do. I could tease you for hours.”
Dillon groaned as he followed the call of his aching cock, thrusting it into the mattress. The friction was nearly enough to get him off—the dance of Lang’s fingers only adding heat. If Lang kept this up much longer, a single simple touch to Dillon’s hole would finish him.
Lang caressed his back again, the weight of his palm barely there as he coasted downward, from shoulder to hip, stopping short of Dillon’s ass.
“Don’t stop.” Dillon’s command came out as a whine. Biting his lip, Dillon concentrated on not raising his hips, not grinding, now reveling in the sense of denial.
“So beautiful,” Lang murmured.
He might come from Lang’s voice alone. The soft encouragements he uttered during sex made Dillon feel desirable, attractive, and sexy. Wanted. The tone of Lang’s voice told him he wasn’t alone in this. Lang enjoyed their gentle games as much as he did.
Lang continued stroking Dillon’s back, stopping right over his ass. Dillon writhed in frustration, the pressure of his hips trapping his cock between his stomach and the mattress. He thrust up and forward. Arched back. Whispered again: “Please.”
He almost cried out when Lang withdrew, only to gasp out a shout as a wet finger finally slid between his buttocks to brush his hole. “Oh God.”
“Don’t come yet,” Lang said.
“Touch me.”
The finger circled and pressed, circled and pressed. Lang knew exactly what Dillon liked. Dillon hadn’t had a lot of experience when it came to relationships, but he and Lang clicked in a way few people ever experienced. They turned each other on, yeah. But even when they weren’t testing the limits of Lang’s cushy mattress, they could exchange a look that crept across skin like a stroke of lightening and know the other was there—ready, waiting.
Touch only intensified their connection, as though they were able to communicate from flesh to flesh. A farfetched idea, but one Dillon nurtured as he became better at reading Lang’s moods and intent—like right now. It was clear Lang relished the tease as much as he did; the small game of denial and reward.
Lang withdrew his finger again, and this time, Dillon heard him sucking on it. Grunting,
Dillon thrust forward and back, increasing the friction against his cock. With each lift of his hips, he moved his legs, parting them and closing them—only half way. Offering up his ass. Lang touched him again, circling with intent, and then pressed his finger inside, breaching the tight ring of muscle.
With his other hand, he reintroduced the downward strokes, from shoulder to hip, drawing Dillon’s body into an arching curve. Dillon writhed beneath the touch, pushing himself back onto that single digit. A second finger joined the first, and the trail of touch down his back spread, encompassing his entire body, making all of him as sensitive as the flesh of his cock. Then Lang crooked his fingers, touching that spot of lightning.
Crying out, Dillon came, jerking forward and rocking back, pushing himself deeper onto Lang’s fingers each time, the increased pressure feeding his orgasm. Lang teased his prostate and Dillon bucked. Even muffled by the pillow, his yells echoed loudly. Shamelessly, he thrust his ass backward, inviting more. Wishing for more. Needing more than two fingers. Then it was as if he was coming again, except his climax had never stopped. Lang loved doing this to him—pushing him to the edge of delirium and wringing him dry. Dillon loved it just as much. He was the one floating in ecstasy, after all.
Sometime later, the world came back to him, reminding him of the dream he’d thought he was having when he woke up. Lang was stroking his back again. Not as low down this time, but his caress was as light and sensual.
“If you touch my ass I might scream,” Dillon muttered into his pillow.
“Tempting…”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a sadist?”
“I do not deliberately cause pain.” Lang managed to sound both indignant and amused.
Dillon extracted himself from the grip of the mattress and rolled over. Cool air touched the damp, sticky mess spread across his stomach. His come had already started drying at the edges, and his skin pulled as he shifted his hips and turned fully into Lang’s waiting embrace.
“But you do seem to like torturing me,” Dillon said.
“You love it.” Lang smiled in the mild, wintry daylight filtering through the tall windows at the end of the bed. Every room facing the park had a wall of windows on that side and no curtains or blinds. Dillon sometimes felt exposed, but the glass was tinted in a way that let light in without showing what was happening on the other side. Also, they were on the top floor and facing away from other buildings. Free to fuck against the windows if they wanted to, or simply take in the view.
Lifting his chin, Dillon leaned in for a kiss. Lang met him halfway, and the kiss began as a lazy exploration with soft touches and flicks of tongue. Teases. Lang deepened the connection, claiming Dillon’s mouth. Lang tasted of mornings and sex, and he moaned as Dillon thrust his tongue in deep. Dillon tucked a hand in against Lang’s chest. With the other, he stroked the long, lean length of Lang’s torso, or what he could reach. He didn’t have the patience to tease the way Lang did, though. After two journeys downward, he wrapped his fingers around Lang’s cock.
Lang drove his hips forward, pushing his erection firmly into Dillon’s palm. Curling his fingers tightly, Dillon stroked down and up until Lang’s shaft throbbed in his hand. When the head was fully exposed, he pressed his thumb into the slit, collecting precome, and stroked down again, squeezing at the base. On the way back up, he employed a twisting movement he knew Lang enjoyed.
Lang expressed his approval with a hitched breath and a cracked sigh. Dillon’s earlier serenity broke apart as Lang became the embodiment of arousal—his scent sharp and demanding.
Dillon increased the pressure and pace, tugging on Lang’s cock now, twisting every time he felt the flare at the top, and then trapping the head between his thumb and palm.
“Yes,” Lang hissed. “Just like that.”
Two more strokes and Lang was bucking into Dillon’s hand, shouting in the quiet way only he could. Thick jets of semen pushed through Dillon’s fingers. He kept stroking, using the fluid to do as Lang had done for him: wring out every last drop of pleasure. Lang clutched at him, his fingers digging into Dillon’s shoulder and hip. Stay. Please stay. He gasped and moaned. Growled. Finally, he shuddered and melted against Dillon, his half-hard cock twitching between them.
Dillon was nearly hard again. God, he loved watching Lang come. Loved more than that. The same deep feelings rolled into him through Lang’s skin—that odd, wordless communication again. Dillon took it as given, as something that happened between lovers. Hadn’t he been waiting for a connection like this?
He kissed Lang’s slack lips and murmured, “I think that definitely qualifies as a happy start to the New Year.”
“Perhaps we should have stayed in last night. I could have—”
Dillon pressed another kiss to Lang’s lips, silencing what might have been another fantasy involving him being restrained in some manner. At least, he hoped that was what it was going to be. Lang was a quiet and reserved guy, but when it came to sex, he was extremely vocal and persuasive—and Dillon liked hearing his ideas. Trying them out. Offering up his body and his ass for all of Lang’s whims.
“I’m okay,” Dillon said. “My eyes are fine and my headache is gone. I feel good. Hungry, because someone woke me up with an orgasm, but good.”
Lang returned his kiss, softly and sweetly. “Let’s see what sort of omelet I can make with my new copper pan.”
Dillon laughed. This—this. A New Year always meant opportunity and a chance to start anew. But being with someone only made it better because of what they brought with them: habits, complexities, small puzzles to solve, and the familiarity of someone to share it all with.
Then and there, Dillon vowed this would be his best year yet. He’d rock this new project—the school—continue to build his relationship with Lang, and stop waiting for Lang to tell him he loved him. It might not be an alien thing. Maybe it was up to him to say those three little words and explain to Lang exactly what they meant.
He was going to do it. Soon. After breakfast. By the end of the week, at the latest. Definitely by the end of January.
Sometime soon. Very soon.
Chapter Four
The motion in Lang’s gut reminded him of the one time he’d stepped aboard a boat. Never again. Human watercraft should be equipped with stasis pods.
A sip of coffee stopped the sick swirl while delivering a much-needed shot of caffeine. Lang replaced his mug beside the laptop and checked at the screen again. Stars. It wasn’t his habit to go hunting for pictures of himself, but the Google alert for “Steilang Skovgaard” did allow him to keep tabs on scurrilous rumors. Thankfully, they had been few and far between over the past couple of years.
There’d been a rash of them shortly after he’d met Dillon and one blurry picture of them picnicking in the park. Well, Dillon sitting on a bench with Lang slumped against him, sleeping. So… not actually eating. The intent had been a picnic, as he recalled, but he’d gone without sleep for too many days again, and his repair cells had insisted on a nap shortly after he sat down.
Lang had opened his laptop that morning expecting to see pictures from New Year’s Eve. Something as fuzzy as the picnic photo—a flare of light and Dillon covering his face, Lang an indistinct shape in the background—headlined with: Steilang Skovgaard and mystery boyfriend celebrating the New Year. Or a comment about how he and the mystery boyfriend were still together. Or that he was still gay—as though people generally changed their sexuality on a whim.
The picture he’d expected was featured on dozens of gossip sites and several low-key newspapers and magazines, along with all the predictable comments. But so was this one: the photo he couldn’t stop staring at. The one that reminded his stomach of his single boat trip.
He and Dillon stood side by side, their hands joined in the middle, their arms forming a V. They were facing each other, both smiling, Lang leaning in slightly, as though preparing to give Dillon a kiss. The slight upward tilt of Dillon’s chin suggested the same.
Lang didn’t remember kissing Dillon outside the club, but he kissed Dillon so often, so casually, that, to him, it was the same as holding Dillon’s hand. Touching his shoulder, his back, his thigh. The need to touch Dillon, constantly, was something he indulged and enjoyed—especially as Dillon seemed to like it.
The feeling in his gut had nothing to do with the loveliness of the picture, though. Dillon was beautiful in all his tall leanness, his purple hair—styled up and away from his face—caught by the light outside the club, the glint at his eyebrow probably one of his piercings. Lang couldn’t judge his own appearance, but he looked happy, his posture one of ambient contentment. He looked like a man in love. It was that—that feeling. He’d read enough novels and watched enough movies to recognize it. He loved Dillon.
Love was a human emotion, though, and one that clan, with their strict hierarchy and predestined lives, did not make time for. Affection was allowed and encouraged. Friendships often lasted lifetimes, and bondmates pledged a deeper connection than friendship to each other. Lang had been extremely close to his former partner, and would have described their bond as between sibling and lover, but not quite. Even though clan used a technology similar to cloning to produce offspring, interfamilial affairs—what humanity called incest—were discouraged. It was more that Rehonen had been the only other person on all of Earth who’d known exactly who and what Lang was. They’d been like family.
Dillon was fast becoming more important. He was family. To use the human equivalent: loved.
Touching a fingertip to the screen, Lang moved on to the next picture and then scrolled through the rest of them. Most were indistinct, including another picture of him and Dillon with their faces pressed close—not as well-lit, and so only presumably them. Given they were both above average height and below average weight, it was undoubtedly them.