Velvet Need

by Sean Michael

  He bent, careful not to jostle the hand he had inside Dent, and kissed his lover gently. “I love you, my dear."

  He got a nod, a soft cry, those swollen lips opening for him. The kiss was deep and intense, and he could lose himself in it. So he pulled away, leaving a last lick on Dent's lips before turning his attention once again to where his hand was.

  "Full. Bertoli, I...” Dent pulled against the bonds, struggling just a bit.

  "I know. And you must relax for me. You must trust me.” He wriggled his fingers, just a little. “And I will make you fly."

  "I do ... I ... It's so big, Bertoli. So much."

  "It is me.” He began to move his hand, his fingers brushing against Dent's gland.

  Dent cried out, arms and legs tugging as the man tried to curl toward him.

  "So beautiful,” he murmured, his voice nothing but air. He was nearly as undone as Dent, his lover so amazing. He continued to move his hand slowly. “Just feel, my dear."

  Dent had no words left to answer him, just moans and cries, the look in those wide eyes completely dazed. It was exactly what he wanted. To fill Dent so completely, to take his lover's trust and offer the most intense pleasure in return.

  His own breath panted from him, and his free hand was shaking the tiniest bit as he reached and twisted the rose-tipped sound.

  Dent convulsed, body flushing a deep, dark rose, the climax caught inside, nothing but a pure rush of sensation that had to flush everything from his Dent. Luttrell swallowed, holding onto his own orgasm with all he had.

  "Another,” he murmured, hand moving inside Dent, fingers of his other hand playing with that rose.

  "I ... I ... Bertoli...” Dent nearly sobbed out his name. “Your. Your own. Love. I love you."

  "Yes. Yes, my Dent.” He pulled the sound out with one smooth move, his hand moving faster, fingertips hitting Dent's gland with more force. Heat splashed over his hand, Dent's belly, strings of semen pouring from his lover's body in pulse after pulse. He could feel it around his fist, Dent's body squeezing him, holding him tighter than anything else ever had.

  His own climax hit him by surprise, heat spraying out to hit Dent.

  Dent was still on his table, eyes closed, breath slowing, steadying. He leaned his forehead against Dent's hip, a soft, keening noise coming from him. “Dent. Oh, my Dent."

  "Y ... yours. Your own."

  Nodding, he moved to kiss Dent's prick, Dent's balls, distracting his lover as he slowly began to work his hand out.

  Dent shivered, whimpered low. “No. Not yet."

  Luttrell stilled, warmth filling him. “Sh. Sh. I'll stay inside you, keep holding you in my hand."

  "Yes.” Dent relaxed, slumped against the chair, nearly asleep.

  He stroked Dent's hair away from his face, gazing into his lover's face. He would do anything for this man. Anything.

  Dent leaned into his touch, sinking deeply into an exhausted sleep, tension dissolved. Luttrell stayed there next to his lover, hand still buried deep inside. Almost as deep as Dent was inside him.

  * * * *

  The communit was buzzing. “Luttrell?"

  Dent wandered through their rooms, frowning. He knew Bertoli was here. He knew it. “Someone's calling.” Damn it.

  Dent stood before the communit, staring, finger reaching for the controls. It kept buzzing. Imperiously. Demanding.

  Someone from the outside. And Bertoli was nowhere in sight. Nowhere.

  "Bertoli?” Dent chewed his bottom lip, staring at the comm, forcing himself to push the button, to ignore the waves of panic that hit him. “What?"

  Herc's face appeared, dark violet eyes matching his hair. “Dent! How wonderful to see you!"

  "Herc.” He nodded, forcing himself not to fidget, not to simply turn the comm off.

  "How are you doing, old friend?” Herc asked, smiling at him.

  He met Herc's eyes, trying not to show his panic. “I'm ... coping. Luttrell is very good to me."

  "You're looking better.” Herc paused a moment and then continued. “I was wondering if you and Luttrell wanted to join me for lunch at one of the pools."

  He shook his head. He couldn't. Not yet. “Luttrell must be sleeping."

  "No, I'm right here, my dear.” Luttrell came to stand next to him, arm looping easily around his waist.

  "Well, I'm sorry I can't convince you to join me for lunch, but perhaps I could book one of the smaller private pools for your use? I remember you being a avid swimmer, Dent."

  "I ... That was before.” He did love the water, or had once, and he found himself suddenly furious, outraged that those bastards had taken so much from him. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into the palms, muscles bunching up.

  Herc's eyes flashed for a moment. “And now? Have you even tried, Dent? I miss you."

  Bertoli's hand squeezed his hip.

  "I have tried. I managed, what? Five steps from these fucking rooms before I run back? Ten?” He growled, embarrassed and ashamed and so very angry.

  "Then try harder. Don't let them win, Dent."

  A hundred vile, vicious things rose in him and he fought them back, his eyes closed as he struggled.

  Hercules kept pushing. “I will not lose my friend. I want to know that you will sit at my table one day soon and eat a meal with me."

  "You cannot always have what you want.” He'd learned that.

  One of Hercules’ eyebrows went up, and then he laughed softly. “No, I suppose I cannot. But your friendship is not something I'm willing to give up. I'll call again."

  His heart ached in his chest. If they hadn't ... “I'll be here."

  "So will I, Dent. So will I."

  The comm went dark.

  "Not bad, my dear,” murmured Bertoli. “Not bad at all."

  "Not bad?” He was a worthless coward. A child. A prisoner. “I'm going to shower."

  "In a minute.” Bertoli stopped him from going. “You answered the comm for the first time. You spoke to Hercules for several minutes—you argued with him."

  "Am I supposed to be proud of that?"

  Bertoli tilted his head. “Tell me then, what you think you need to do to make yourself proud."

  "I...” Dent opened his mouth, closed it, finding no answers. None. “I need a shower."

  "No. No showers until you have answered my question."

  "I. Need. A. Shower.” The fury hit him again, surprising him. Shocking him.

  Bertoli crossed his arms. “No. You had a shower two hours ago. And I won't let you go hide in the shower without answering my question first. Tell me what you have to do to make yourself proud."

  "No!” He turned from those eyes, fists crashing against the wall, over and over.

  Bertoli waited until he'd stopped and then the long body wrapped around him from behind. “Are you done?"

  "Yes.” He leaned back against the now-familiar strength, trembling and shaken.

  A kiss landed on his shoulder. “Will you answer my question? And if you won't, will you at least admit that you're expecting more of yourself than anyone else is?"

  "I can't answer your question, Bertoli. I don't know the answer."

  "Fair enough. I am proud of you, though, my dear.” Bertoli laughed. “You have no idea. Ten steps out the door, and answering the comm, speaking to Hercules for ages. We'll be at the pools in no time, swimming to your heart's content."

  "I used to be more.” He had traveled the galaxy, controlled a vast corporation.

  "You used to be overworked and unhappy, my dear."

  "I wasn't afraid.” Which was a lie. He had been, when he had time to think about it.

  "No? Never?"

  He waved his hand, started pacing. “That's a silly question."

  Bertoli snorted. “Are you going to answer any of my questions today?"

  He rolled his eyes, aggravated. “No. No, I'm just going to take my shower and my nap."

  "I don't think so.” Bertoli grabbed his hand and headed them down the ha
ll.

  "No. No. I don't want this. I want some time.” He dug in his heels, stubborn.

  "Time to what?” Bertoli asked. “Whenever I ask hard questions or push, you go running to the shower, to a nap. You say you don't want to be like this, but you aren't pushing yourself at all."

  He turned on Bertoli with a snarl. “No. No, I'm not. Of course, I'm not. I push myself every day to wake up and not hide away. I push myself not to look behind the doors, not to dream about them night after night!” His fist slammed into the wall, right beside Bertoli. “I should have died out there and then I would not be such a problem now!"

  Bertoli jumped, but Dent's anger didn't send his lover away. “No! No, you are not a problem, Dent! You are my lover, my friend, and I am scared you will never be happy with the progress you've made, never believe yourself to be more than a shadow of the man you were. Well, I love the man you are here and now. And I want you to be happy."

  "I don't know how to be happy!"

  "To start with, you need to stop being disappointed in yourself. So what if you don't do the things you used to do? You hated your work, and you're well rid of it. You need to find new goals, and you need to revel in the pleasures you have, the things we do together...” Bertoli took a deep breath and reached out to touch his arm. “You have to decide what you want to do with your life and then work toward it instead of worrying about how things used to be."

  "I don't have goals beyond forgetting.” He sighed, fingers tugging at his hair.

  "Maybe that's part of why you're stuck here.” Bertoli took his hands, twined their fingers together. “You should be working toward something, not running away from memories. You don't have to face them alone, my dear, but I think perhaps you do have to face them."

  "I have faced them. I survived them. I never intend to think of them again.” He didn't want to remember the sounds of electricity upon his skin, of the burns and slaps and slices. Of the touches, of the tears.

  "But you do think of them. You expect the spectre of them to jump out at you around every corner.” Bertoli sighed. “I just want your happiness, my dear."

  "I'm sorry, Bertoli.” He turned away, headed toward the door, shoulders slumping.

  "Dent!” Bertoli caught up with him, grabbing his arm and whirling him around so they were face to face. “I am not disappointed in you. Quite the opposite—I am proud of you!"

  "How? How can you be?"

  "You answered that comm on your own and spent several minutes talking to Herc. You got angry and let it out, and survived. Every day you go further from the door. And you revel in every touch I offer. How could I not be proud?"

  "I want ... I want to understand where I am.” He stepped closer to his lover, soaking up the heat there.

  Bertoli wrapped the long, thin arms around him immediately, drawing him even nearer. “Come to the room with me. We will meditate on it together."

  "Together.” He let Bertoli lead him this time, let Bertoli hold his gaze.

  "In all things, my dear.” Bertoli stopped just inside the door to the room, his head tilting to the side. “Would you like us to have something tangible to show that?"

  "What?"

  "Matching rings, tattoos. You could wear my collar.” Bertoli laughed gently. “There are many, many ways we could make the statement."

  A collar. He touched his neck, considering that idea. “We should think about it some."

  Bertoli nodded, the long fingers joining his and sliding around his neck. “I would not have thought you could be more handsome, but perhaps ... maybe my collar would be the finishing touch."

  "I...” What would his friends think? What would Herc say? Mal? Did it matter? Did it matter even a bit? “I ... am intrigued."

  Bertoli smiled. “Yes? I like the idea myself.” Those fingers continued to slide along his neck.

  His eyes closed, his tension beginning to ease.

  "Something strong and masculine. Perhaps a tattoo of a thick-linked chain, or a dark leather band.” He could tell that Bertoli liked the idea, that long prick filling against his thigh.

  Strong. “You still think I'm strong.” It wasn't a question, not really.

  "I have never met anyone stronger, my dear. Never."

  "I will be able to swim again, one day.” It was a prayer, a wish.

  "You will. You can do anything you set your mind to, my dear. Anything."

  "I will.” He would. He wanted to.

  Bertoli leaned in and kissed him, eyes warm and full of love, then tugged him toward the table. “You will. Now, what shall we do today?"

  "I don't know. I...” He stopped, frowned a moment. “I want to be clean, Bertoli. I can feel my anger on my skin.” That was odd, but true.

  "And that is how we always begin, is it not, my dear?” Bertoli laughed gently, that sound so familiar and good. “I will clean you, top to bottom."

  Dent nodded. “It is the best part."

  "It brings us together."

  "Does that please you?” He needed to know, needed to know that Bertoli was with him on that.

  "More than I can say, my dear.” Bertoli looked shy for a moment. “I have always enjoyed what I do here, but until I met you, I have never felt this way."

  Dent reached out, drew his lover to him. “I kept holding onto the memory of you."

  "And now you can hold onto me in the flesh.” Bertoli's kiss left him of no doubt of who he was holding, and it was not merely an insubstantial memory.

  Dent groaned, stepping closer and pushing against Bertoli with a low moan. Oh. Kisses. He could live for those kisses. One flowed into another, each one long and wet and filled with a shared need.

  Slowly, so very slowly, Bertoli undressed him. Desire had him exploring Bertoli's body, hands dragging over the fine skin, adoring his lover. Sweet moans filled the air, Bertoli moving into each of his touches, hands holding on to him.

  Dent eased to his knees, licking and nibbling on Bertoli's flat belly, chin nudging that heavy cock.

  "Oh, my dear...” Bertoli's laughing moan filled the air, the long fingers sliding through his hair.

  He nodded and took Bertoli's cock in, lips wrapping around the tip and drawing the bitter and salt flavor in. His lover's hips jerked, and then stilled, Bertoli's hands wrapping around his shoulders and holding on.

  Dent set himself to loving Bertoli, to offering his lover all the sensation he could. Soon Bertoli's hips began to move again, finding a rhythm and pushing into his mouth over and over. He rocked with the motions, letting Bertoli in deep and then deeper.

  "My dear, oh my dear, yes.” The long prick grew harder, throbbing on his tongue.

  Dent sucked, staring up into those light eyes, offering Bertoli his soul.

  "Dent!” Bertoli cried out, seed spilling into his throat. He drank the man down, resting his forehead against one bony hip. “Oh, my dear.” Bertoli's voice was laced with laughter, with happiness. “I am the luckiest man."

  He kissed the curve of Bertoli's stomach, tongue caressing the skin.

  "No one has ever cared so for my pleasure,” murmured Bertoli, hand sliding through his hair.

  "How could anyone not, as much as you offer?"

  "Most saw me as a means to an end, I believe. As a...” Bertoli shrugged. “Only you see inside me."

  He kissed Bertoli again. “I love you.” Simple as that.

  Bertoli nodded. “Yes. And that is why I am the luckiest man in the universe.” Bertoli tugged him up, took a soft kiss. “And I love you, my dear."

  It was easy to nod to lean into Bertoli and hold tight.

  "Mmm ... let's get you clean, my dear. And then I want to make love to you."

  "Yes.” He met Bertoli's eyes, slowly becoming comfortable with his need. “Please."

  Chapter Eleven

  Luttrell hummed as he finished wrapping his gift for Dent, putting a huge, gaudy bow on the top. He giggled at the sight of it. If nothing else, it should make his lover smile.

  "Dent?” he called
out, taking his package and heading toward the living room. He'd left Dent dozing on the couch.

  "Hmm?” Dent blinked up, too-long hair tousled and mussed.

  He sat on the edge of the couch on one butt cheek, and reached to slide Dent's hair away from his face. “I have a present for you, my dear."

  "What is it?” Dent smiled, relaxed and easy. The nightmares were beginning to fade, Dent getting less sleep yet more rest.

  He chuckled. “Well, open it and find out.” He shook it, the shiny bow catching the light.

  Dent laughed, tore the bow off and dug through the paper. The swimming gear—new suit, heavy towel, thick robe and dark glasses to round out the look—fell into Dent's lap.

  Luttrell slid his fingers over the robe. “Have you ever felt anything so decadent?” he asked.

  Dent's cheeks were dark and the fingers trembling as they reached for the robe, but they did reach for it, did stroke the soft, luscious fabric.

  "I thought you would look stunning in the dark red.” A soft laugh preceded his next words. “I admit I indulged and bought one just the same for myself, only in white."

  And they would use them today. They would change into swimming trunks and robes, Dent would wear his sexy dark glasses and they would go to the private pool he'd booked.

  "It would be beautiful on you.” Dent reached out, stroked the collar of the robe.

  "Well, you can be the judge of that. I'll change into my suit and put on my robe and you'll do the same and we'll feel each other's clothes up.” His little joke had him giggling away.

  "I ... I don't know if I'm ready, Bertoli.” That was his Dent, not prevaricating, not lying to him.

  "We'll take this one step at a time, my dear. Surely you are ready to put on a pair of fancy new swimming trunks and a robe?” One thing at a time, and before his Dent knew what was what they'd be in the water. That was the plan, anyway.

  Dent blushed dark and nodded, offering him a wry smile. “Of course I am. Easy access for me, with you in your suit."

  He giggled. “Likewise. If nothing else we can sit on the couch and make out like teenagers."

  "That sounds perfect.” Dent stood, grabbed his box. “Absolutely perfect."

  "Mine's in the bedroom. I'll meet you back here in five minutes, my dear. Don't be late.” He winked and headed for the bedroom, eager to see Dent all decked out in his new clothes, knowing they would suit his lover, show off the strong lines.