“All right?” Bas asks, voice low and heavy, like he’s got gravel in his throat.
And Kimolijah has to think about it, has to really concentrate to make sense of it, because what kind of stupid fucking question is that, anyway? Is he all right? No, he’s not all right, he’s about to bloody die of sex, for God’s sake, and he grinds his teeth as he realizes Bas has gone still and is actually waiting for an answer.
Kimolijah’s emotions are stretched out and bowed, joined and blurred together in the middle, and he can’t tell which is which; fear, lust, anger, love—it all feels the same, fearlustangerlove—and it makes his heart thud and his blood pulse hot through his veins until it reaches his brain and scour-scalds his mind. He is a great, jittering mass of feeling, of raw nerve-endings, like his skin can’t even contain him and hold him together anymore, he’s just a big puddle of sensation, and that’s all right, good even, hot and good, but there’s still something cold and oily beneath it all, and he doesn’t know what it is.
Kimolijah tries to catch his breath, locks his jaw, because he thinks if he tries to speak, a stream of insult and invective is likely to spill out his mouth, if anything he says is even intelligible, and he really doubts that’s the answer Bas is looking for. Kimolijah calms the gulping that’s not really helping him breathe anyway, tames it down to a semi-steady in-and-out. And he nods.
“Say it,” Bas tells him.
And this time Kimolijah’s pissed, he’s really bloody pissed, because Bas has driven him to a state that’s as close to senseless as he’d ever imagined he could be, and now he wants coherent conversation? Kimolijah clenches his hands into fists, squeezes his legs as together as they can get until one knee is digging into the side of Bas’s neck and the other is grinding into his ribs so hard that Bas chuffs out a sharp little gasp.
Kimolijah narrows his gaze, sends a few sparks shooting from his fingers and up the wall behind the bed, and he’s not entirely sure it’s just for show. Slowly and clearly, he says, “If you leave me here like this for much longer, I will fry you to a slimy little puddle of slag, and when I tell the Directorate what happened, they will shake my hand and commend me to the Prime Minister, and the whole of Knapston will throw me a parade.” He lifts his head, lets his mouth pull into a bit of a snarl, and growls, “Don’t. Stop.”
Bas’s eyes go dark, narrow, and his jaw sets. A small, buzzing assault of nerves slicks through Kimolijah at that look, and he lets his head drop back, swallows, because he has no idea what he’s just let himself in for; he’s not the one in control, after all.
A small, evil little smile, and Bas does something twisty and wicked with his hips, makes Kimolijah scream so loud his throat almost locks up.
“A ‘yes’ would’ve done,” Bas slurs.
Kimolijah doesn’t really hear it, what with his blood slamming against his eardrums as it is, thudding through his head and chest, as Bas drives into him so hard Kimolijah has to lock his arms, grip the headboard to keep himself from being rammed right through it. It’s fierce and rough and driving, and it winds everything inside Kimolijah into a thrumming, fiery coil.
And this is all right, this is good, and maybe Bas handed Kimolijah back that tiny bit of control just when Kimolijah was about to lose it completely, or maybe it was just an accident, but it doesn’t matter, because Kimolijah has himself back now, and he can have that at the same time he has this. It somehow puts the world right, makes this into the everything he’d suspected, instead of the nothing he’d feared.
It’s like some great weight has been lifted from Kimolijah’s chest, and relief swamps him that he can breathe again. He can feel everything—the sheets clinging to his back and scraping lightly at his skin as Bas drives him up towards the headboard and then pulls him back down; the maddening little breeze over his erection that Bas stirs as he slams his body into Kimolijah’s; the stretch and burn of strained muscle in his arms and shoulders; and for the first time, Kimolijah lets himself feel—really feel—the slick-rough bristle of the silk around his wrists. Maybe he’d been afraid to let himself accept the sensation before, he doesn’t know, but now he revels in it, lets Bas enwind his whole body in a corporeal bond, as silken as the scarf itself, for all that it’s coarse and almost-harsh.
He relaxes a little, lets go the headboard, tug-twists his wrists—trying to get loose or making sure he can’t?—and the uncertainty of just that one thing is like a burst of warmth in his chest, chitters white noise through his head, sideswipes him and sends a slurry of buzzing animal want all through him.
“Fuck, yes,” Bas breathes, low and shaky, and Kimolijah opens his eyes, tries to focus, sees Bas’s eyes locked to the movement of Kimolijah’s own wrists, watches them flare and widen with each curl of fingers, each pull and twist and quiver. And God, the half-drunk look in Bas’s eyes, like Kimolijah himself is some sort of opiate and Bas can’t help it, can’t help but want him, want him with everything in him and with a ferocity that might be exhilarating or terrifying, it can go either way, and there’s an astounding brilliance in knowing that it won’t.
Bas flicks a look at Kimolijah, something sharp with little razor-teeth, and Bas smiles a bit, a small, wicked thing, and he drags his fingertips over the bunched muscles of Kimolijah’s forearms, skitters them over the slippery silk of the scarf, and the gasp it draws from Kimolijah makes Bas’s smile curl at the corners, deepen into something murky and intense. Bas’s eyes nearly glaze over, only just bright enough still to gleam dark in the tossing shadows from the fire. A hard, jolting snap of Bas’s hips, and Kimolijah’s whole body arches, a shock of fizzy euphoria arcing out from Bas’s body and into Kimolijah’s like live gridstream, sparking through from the dense core of him and exploding through his chest in a hungry, guttural cry.
Bas’s hand drags down Kimolijah’s arm, over his chest, and even though Kimolijah knows it’s coming, has been waiting for it for what seems years, he still can’t help but jolt and nearly choke on a gasp when Bas finally lays that hand to him. The touch is firm and hot, and still a little oil-slick; Kimolijah feels like it’s enfolding the whole of him, gripping him together so he doesn’t fly apart.
It feels like Kimolijah’s been hard forever, like he’s been so close to the edge of orgasm for so long he’s forgotten how to let himself fall over it. Spiraling pressure builds up and up, flares through his limbs, pushes behind his eyes so they burn and sting, and he almost feels like weeping. Right there, and almost but not quite, and it’s like he’s hanging over a chasm by his fingertips, his own weight dragging on his body and stretching him out, tight and taut, and if he just lets go, lets himself drop, and why can’t he just let go?
He’s vaguely aware of Bas’s free hand tracing up and over his arm, sliding towards his hand, and yes, maybe that’s it, maybe if Bas just touches the silk, burns it into Kimolijah’s skin, Kimolijah will be able to fall and this cruel-sweet ache will coalesce into euphoria before he can lose what’s left of his mind. But Bas doesn’t touch it—he skims right over it, twines his fingers with Kimolijah’s instead, holds on tight.
“C’mon, love,” he pants. “Do it, let go, I want to feel it.”
And that’s it, that’s just it, that’s all Kimolijah can take, it all goes splintery and wobbly, and Kimolijah lets go of everything with a throat-ripping scream. He doesn’t hear it, he doesn’t hear anything but the rush of blood pounding through his head. He only feels, so much sensation he really thinks he might die of the overload. And he doesn’t care. Bas is still driving into him, still scraping bliss up Kimolijah’s spine, dragging him through ecstasy like it’s a whole new world and he means to show Kimolijah every last acre of it before he lets him die of rapture. It’s wild and it’s sharp, a raw nerve-ending swaddled in acute pleasure, and Kimolijah writhes, bends and twists, arches so hard he vaguely feels the knobs of his spine popping and cracking in protest before his body locks into an arced bow, every nerve awake and hot, and blinding white light pounding behind his
eyes.
He can’t move, but it doesn’t disturb him like he would have thought it would; his body feels all fizzy-warm, every inch of him aware and wallowing in sensation, shuddering and twitching as something deep within him listens to Bas groaning release, feels the last jerky thrusts of his body against Kimolijah’s, and Kimolijah thinks he smiles. There’s an odd kind of peace in the frothy stillness inside Kimolijah’s head, where the hour is none and nothing else exists in the world but the two of them.
Kimolijah’s mind has gone blank, everything has gone blank, narrowed down to a pinpoint of warm nothingness, and that’s all right, too, because it’s not a scary nothing; it’s too full of everything to be scary. It could be hours that he floats in this luxurious serene sort of limbo, but he thinks it’s probably only minutes or even seconds, and the next thing he’s aware of is Bas collapsed atop him, panting like a bellows and shaking. Kimolijah wishes he could stroke him, soothe him, run a caress up and down his back; even as he gives his arms a shaky, experimental little tug, he’s surprised to find them lying limp at his sides. He lifts them up, vaguely feeling a slow-sloughing burn work its way from his forearms down to his shoulders and curling around over his back, but that’s for later. He blinks and squints, then stares dumbly at his right arm for a moment, the scarf still wound about loosely and dangling from his wrist, but no longer attached to the headboard. Huh.
“Whenna niss—?” Kimolijah realizes he’s mumbling and shuts his mouth, absurdly amused that he’s lost the power of speech. When did this happen? was what he’d meant to ask, but decides he doesn’t really need to know.
“Mm?” Bas hums back.
Kimolijah only smiles a little and doesn’t try to repeat the question; it’s really not important.
Bas takes a long, dragging breath, slowly props himself up on his elbows and peers down at Kimolijah. Kimolijah can’t read Bas’s expression, which is odd—he can usually tell what Bas is thinking just by the sort of smile or frown he’s wearing—but something inexplicable winds through Kimolijah’s gut, lays a tiny shrill of unease over him.
Don’t make me remember, don’t make what just happened into nothing, and don’t say it’s everything, don’t say it out loud, don’t say it at all, just let it be…
Bas reaches over, takes up Kimolijah’s left hand, draws it close and inspects his wrist. Kimolijah’s eyes are still a little crossed and blurry, and lighting a lamp was rather low on the priority list when they’d stumbled into the room, so he can’t really see what Bas is looking at, but he’s got a pretty good idea.
Don’t, don’t, please don’t…
But Bas only lays a light, feathery kiss to Kimolijah’s wrist, gently thumbs at the whorls of black ink bisected by scars that aren’t old enough yet. Kimolijah can tell the skin is raw and abraded by the small flare of heat from the contact, but he’s paying too much wary attention to what Bas is doing for it to really register. Kimolijah’s holding his breath, tense, and he doesn’t know what he’s expecting, fearing, but it never comes; Bas simply lays Kimolijah’s hand back down to the sheets, draws back up onto his knees and gently prods Kimolijah’s hip.
“Turn over, I’ll rub your shoulders.”
Kimolijah didn’t realize it was possible to feel so many emotions within such a short span of time, but it seems like he’s felt everything it’s possible to feel over the past however-long-it’s-been, and yet here’s a new one. He’s not sure what this one is; he thinks it feels a little like gratitude, and he has this odd impulse to thank Bas, but he thinks that might somehow be insulting, so he keeps it in. His mouth is twitching, and he thinks it wants to smile, but if he lets his eyes crinkle, they might start to leak, so he keeps that in, too. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself, so he only does what Bas has asked and turns over.
It’s wonderful, Bas’s broad hands on him, stroking peace back into Kimolijah’s skin, and drawing serenity up with careful fingers. Just lovely, there’s no better word for it, and Kimolijah relaxes into the soothing touches, lets Bas manipulate strained muscles and coiled tendons from arms to shoulders and on down Kimolijah’s back. It almost seems more intimate than what they’ve just done, the quiet wrapping itself inside him, stilling everything that threatened chaos and taking it down to a low, melodic hum behind his eyes.
It’s times like these that Kimolijah really and truly understands how much he loves Bas, and that usually scares him so badly that he only looks at it for a second or two before pushing it into his back-brain. Right now, he takes it out, peers at it closely, and decides it’s worth savoring, even if this is the only time he’ll let himself do it.
“Are you going to want a bath?” Bas asks; his voice is soft but awake and clear.
Kimolijah almost growls. Because he’s so bloody exhausted he doesn’t know if he’ll ever move again.
“Mmrph,” he replies. Let Bas make of it what he will; Kimolijah will go along with it, whatever it is.
Bas snorts a little. “Well, since you always want a bath, I’ll take that as a yes.”
And that’s just… it’s just right, so quietly right that Kimolijah squeezes his eyes shut tight, sucks in a shaky breath, and what is all this, anyway? When did he become this raw disarray of emotional penury?
“Not yet,” Kimolijah whispers, “don’t go yet,” and he doesn’t even care that he’s apparently not done with the needy begging thing yet.
Bas only stretches out alongside him, slides a knee over Kimolijah’s thighs and keeps one hand moving up and down Kimolijah’s spine. “Later,” Bas agrees. “I’ll put some coppers up and get you something for your throat, shall I? Sounds a little sore.”
That makes Kimolijah smile, small and wobbly, because that’s right, too, Bas mother-henning, and a little piece of Kimolijah’s world clicks back into place. His throat is sore and just as sensitive as everything else seems to be, and it keeps accumulating these mystifying lumps that Kimolijah has to swallow down or breathe around, and both are getting more and more difficult. For all that tonight has been astonishing and revelatory, he’ll be just as happy when it’s over and he can tuck his emotions back inside where they belong, instead of having them dripping out of him like this and him not able to stop the flow.
Kimolijah takes a deep breath that’s a little more steady than the last had been, ventures, “I see my nefarious scheme is working, then,” and sighs a little when it comes out slightly mumbled and slurred, but clear enough.
Bas’s hand pauses for a moment. Kimolijah can’t see him, can’t see anything but the insides of his eyelids, but he knows Bas’s eyebrows have gone up and one corner of his mouth is quirked.
“And which scheme is that? There are so many, after all.”
Kimolijah stretches, rolls his shoulders beneath Bas’s hand; Bas takes the hint and resumes kneading at them. “The one where I get you to shag me witless and then coddle me until I can move and think again.”
“Ah,” Bas says. “And did this scheme entail tea or port for your throat?”
“Um…” Kimolijah frowns. “That’s… sort of an odd choice, isn’t it?” He grunts a bit when Bas’s hand cups the entirety of his right shoulder blade and digs into the muscle.
“When I was a boy,” Bas tells him, “Mam always insisted that tea with honey and lemon and a touch of freesia would cure anything from a runny nose to the loss of a limb.”
Kimolijah smiles, relieved that it doesn’t feel so shaky anymore. “’S nice,” he mumbles.
“But Gran used to sneak me a glass of port after Mam had gone off. Told me that even if it didn’t cure whatever was ailing me, at least it would make me feel like it had.”
Kimolijah chuckles at that one. “And did it?”
“Oh, yes,” Bas answers, the smile plain in his voice. “I was—what?—five or so, I imagine, when Gran started sotting me with the stuff, and it always did go straight to my head.”
“Still does,” Kimolijah observes wryly.
&nbs
p; “Whatever,” is all Bas retorts. “Anyway, I never was quite sure which did the job, the tea or the port, so you’ll have to tell me which.” He burrows in a little tighter, mouth resting warm against Kimolijah’s shoulder. “When I get up, that is. Which is not right now.”
Pillow talk. That’s all.
No are you all right? No did it remind you? No are you over it, finally, can you live now, can you be a whole person, can you forget, should you?
Nothing.
Kimolijah is so relieved that they are decidedly Not Talking About It that he feels a sudden and irresistible urge to let Bas know how grateful he is. With some effort, Kimolijah turns his head, lays a kiss to Bas’s hair before sinking like a stone back into the pillows; it’s perhaps a smallish token, but it’s all he can manage right now. Bas’s hand sweeps over to Kimolijah’s arm, gives it a light squeeze in acknowledgement before sliding down to stroke firmly over ribcage then backbone.
“You decide,” Kimolijah eventually answers, exhaustion thickening his tongue, spiraling behind his eyes and pulling heavily at his body. Sleep is rolling right over him and he doesn’t have the inclination to resist it at the moment, so he just sighs out a long breath, smiles a little. “I trust you,” he slurs into the pillow, then gives in and dozes.
Author Bio
Carole lives with her husband and family in Pennsylvania, USA, where she spends her time trying to find time to write. The recipient of various amateur writing awards, several of her short stories have been translated into Spanish, German, Chinese and Polish. Free shorts, sneak peeks at WIPs, and other miscellany can be found at www.carolecummings.com.