by E M Lindsey
“Talk to me,” Amit gasped, leaning his head into Miguel’s grip.
“I love you.” Miguel’s words were punctuated with Amit’s groan of pleasure as he pulled out and thrust in again. “Everything about you is perfect, and beautiful. I love taking you apart. I love seeing you like this—helpless for me, spread out on my dick, desperate to come but so far from the edge.”
“God,” Amit cried out. His muscles clenched harder and Miguel had to squeeze his eyes shut on the next thrust.
He was too close, but he could feel Amit matching his pace. The way his skin was now tacky, the way he was trembling non-stop, the way his hands grasped at Miguel’s hips like he wanted to take back his earlier plea for it to be slow.
Moving his hands, Miguel cupped Amit by the ass and lifted him higher to give in to the second part of his request.
Hard.
He angled him, well practiced to know exactly the one Amit wanted, and then he thrust. It was slow, but he didn’t stop when he was fully seated. He pushed and pushed and rolled his hips and used his carefully cultivated strength to torment Amit’s prostate and he was rewarded with Amit’s head thrown back, a cry filling the room.
Miguel did it again, not pulling out far this time, and then thrusting in with all he had. Amit’s hands fumbled between them to get around his dick, and Miguel couldn’t take his eyes off the way Amit held himself, stroking with a furious pace that was in sharp juxtaposition to the way he was holding himself inside, almost completely still.
He pushed again. Rolled his hips again. And he saw it. A dark flush rising up Amit’s throat, and then a gasp.
And then he was coming. Searing hot ropes splattered across the fine hairs along his stomach, his back arching and falling, his legs trembling. His ass spasmed, and it only took two hard thrusts for Miguel to join him, feeling the last vestiges of Amit’s orgasm rolling through his body as he spilled, and spilled, and spilled.
He’d exerted almost no real physical effort, and yet he immediately felt drained, his limbs turning to jelly as his knees gave out and he collapsed forward. Amit caught him with a laugh, his lips pressing almost desperate kisses to every inch of Miguel’s face that he could reach. He felt some, the others over numb scars, but each one settled into the space behind his ribs and wrapped around his beating heart.
“Love you,” Amit was saying when Miguel could hear properly again. “No one ever makes me feel the way you do.”
Miguel grunted and rolled toward him, taking Amit in his arms, not giving a single shit about the come or sweat between them. “I should fuckin’ hope not,” he grunted against the side of Amit’s face, and his lover laughed.
“You know what I mean,” Amit said, and he pulled away, putting his hand to the scarred side of Miguel’s cheek. His thumb drew a line next to his mouth, Miguel feeling it with more pressure than delicate sensation, and he loved it. He loved that Amit touched him without restraint, without care, without pretending like his scars didn’t exist and loving them as part of who Miguel was. “I’m sorry for falling apart and being weird. I mean, I’m…trained in this kind of shit, you know? I should be better than this.”
Miguel let out a slow breath, the nosed along the edge of Amit’s jaw before kissing him. “There’s no shame in needing to be weak sometimes. A very wise person taught me that.”
“Mm, he sounds smart,” Amit said, unable to hide his grin.
Miguel smiled back, nipping at his jaw. “The smartest. And prettiest.” He dragged his palm over Amit’s ass and held one cheek in his hand. “Thank you for loving me as hard as you do.”
Amit just looked at him like a he was an idiot, like there was nothing else in the world he could do besides love him, and Miguel felt that like it was the most physically powerful thing in the universe.
Amit breathed out through his nose, keeping his lips parted as the lip wand passed over his mouth once—then twice. Then a third time. A thumb tidied up the edges, then he opened his eyes and smiled at his friend.
There was a time he might have been surprised to see Chris there—and even now he was still beyond startled that his friend was not only coming to a drag event, but also helping him put on makeup. Chris had always been more uptight than most of their group. Deaf bonded them more than anything else, and Amit had been petrified to come out to him for so long.
It felt foolish now—after all these years, losing no one, but gaining family on both sides of his life. And it no longer seemed strange that his married friend with two kids wearing the suit he’d had on in court all day, was now finishing up Amit’s contour.
‘Beautiful,’ Chris signed, stepping back to admire his work. His eyes glanced around the room at the vast array of clothes Amit had finally gone through. ‘Do you need help with that?’
Amit grinned and shook his head. ‘Miguel will be here in a minute.’
Chris still didn’t love that Amit had fallen for a hearie, but after getting to know him—after seeing just how much Miguel meant—he’d reluctantly given them his blessing. He still didn’t spend time around Amit’s hearing friends, but Amit didn’t mind keeping those parts of his life separate.
Especially because Miguel was comfortable in both places, and he was never made to feel like he had to choose.
‘Don’t let him mess this up,’ Chris said, and he grabbed a bottle of setting spray and spritzed him down.
It smelled like rose, and Amit breathed it in before sitting back in the salon chair and smiling. ‘I’m nervous.’
And he had every right to be. He’d been embracing himself for a long while, but this was something new. He was going to get on stage, and have all eyes on him. And it was nothing like his bartending days where he was being paid to smile a lot and flirt a little and get people drunk.
The crowd was there to see him. Him and all the others in their group. The music would be loud, rumbling beneath their feet. The lights would shine and move to the beat, and his hands would sign to the lyrics he’d spent the last two months memorizing.
And he hadn’t stopped feeling that disconnect between who he was and what he was meant to be, but he felt more grounded than ever before. He gazed back at his friend who had a strange look in his eye, but before he could lift his hands to ask, Chris lowered down into a chair and leaned toward him.
‘You’re brave.’
Amit blinked. ‘What?’
‘I’ve spent almost all of my life either angry or terrified. Angry the world is hearing, terrified to try and exist without ten foot walls around myself. I fell in love with Sarah during freshman year, but was too scared to ask her out until we were almost graduating.’ His mouth curved into a half-smile. ‘I wanted to marry her on our third date, but I waited three years to ask her.’
‘Chris,’ Amit signed, but his friend just shook his head.
‘Watching you grow into yourself gave me courage. Watching you tonight will be…’ His fingers hovered in the air, loose and casual, but there was a fire in his eyes. ‘Thank you for not leaving me behind.’
Amit wasn’t quite sure what to say to all of that. Chris was the angry friend, and the stoic one. He was the man who didn’t show feelings regularly unless they were fury and frustration. So to see him like this, to sit before his confession, Amit had no idea what to do with it.
‘Break a leg,’ Chris offered, then the door opened and Amit had only a second to himself before another body filled the doorway.
He loved Chris, but the way he felt for Miguel was something otherworldly. There were no words in any language, but there was a feeling—a pull, and it dragged him to his feet. His robe swished around his knees and his arms opened and he was swept up and kissed and kissed until his lungs seized.
His makeup was probably thrashed, but he’d fix it, because tasting Miguel’s tongue in his mouth was worth more than anything.
When he pulled back, Miguel wrapped his stump around the back of Amit’s neck and stroked his thumb there as his other hand pushed between them. ‘How are y
ou?’
‘Nervous.’ It was the easy answer. He’d had a mild panic attack when he was helping to hang the drag show sign. He’d stood back and stared at the shiny letters reading, ‘Queeries: We can’t hear, but we are queer.’
And it was absurd and adorable and then he looked down at his hands and saw them covered in glitter and he thought, ‘Fuck, I need to wash this off before someone sees.’ It was a deeply-ingrained reaction, and it meant nothing.
Except it didn’t.
It was the echo of a childhood, an adolescence, his step into adulthood where he’d been fucking petrified of anyone finding his drawer of panties and skirts, his stash of nail polishes, his cases of lipsticks and eye shadows. And it was better now, but those hurts didn’t disappear, and he found himself questioning who he was even more these days.
It felt…unsettling, even if Miguel’s arms grounded him better than anything else could.
‘You look beautiful,’ Miguel told him, and Amit couldn’t help his grin.
He loved everything about this man. Every inch of his skin, his dark eyes, his rich hair, the swirls of ink covering his body. Amit loved his lazy grins and his clunky signs, and his unapologetic adoration of who and what they were to each other.
He cupped Miguel’s face and dragged his thumb over his scarred cheekbone. ‘Help me get dressed?’ he asked with his free hand.
Miguel nodded. They’d prepared for this. Hell, it felt like they’d been preparing for this since Amit had allowed Miguel to drop to his knees and help him into a pair of fishnet tights for the first time. And he’d done so ever since—every night, sliding him into them only so he could tug a pair of panties aside, or rip a pair of tights, and then fuck him until Amit couldn’t see straight.
This felt a little heavier though, but his heart was ready to bear this moment of public display as he watched Miguel shuffle through the array and find the dress they’d picked out together. It was gold, and form fitting. It would be slid on over a corset and silk panties that Miguel had clutched in his fist.
Amit’s mouth went dry and his cock went hard, and he had to breathe through it because he wanted to do this, but he also just wanted to get dressed and then get fucked stupid against the wall. Luckily, Miguel was a master of restraint. Amit knew he was hard and wanting from the way his hands trembled, but he lifted Amit’s leg with an almost painful tenderness, then slid his foot through one hole, then the other.
He let his hands slow-drag up his thighs, then paused just under his ass and stared at Amit’s unapologetic erection that was leaking at the tip. His tongue drifted out, dragging over his lower lip.
‘I should help,’ Miguel signed, his fingers more sloppy than ever. ‘You can’t go out there like this.’
Amit swallowed, his breathing ragged, his head nodding even though Miguel was focused on his dick instead of his eyes or his hands. He gave a small thrust forward, which was answer enough, and without preamble, Miguel opened his mouth and took him deep into the back of his throat.
Amit felt a groan rip from his chest, and he slapped a hand over his mouth even though he could feel thrumming base under his fingers as they braced himself against the dressing table. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he tried not to smear his makeup as Miguel pulled back in a slow drag, and then took him in deeper again.
Pleasure skittered up his spine, then spread warm through his limbs as Miguel swallowed against him, then pulled back to tongue at his slit. Biting the inside of his cheek, Amit took both hands and cupped Miguel’s cheeks, feeling his own bulge sliding as he surged forward again.
What Amit really wanted was to pull him away, to turn him, to open for him. He wanted to feel that mouth—those teeth—grazing the back of his neck and sucking claiming marks into his skin. But there wasn’t time, so he pushed himself along the curl of Miguel’s tongue again. And again. And again.
He gave a single tap of warning before he came, but Miguel didn’t do more than suck hard and milk every drop from Amit’s balls. His breath stuttered in his chest as he tried to catch it, and his whole body shuddered as Miguel pulled away with a wet pop, then curled his hand around Amit’s dick and kissed the tip.
“Shit,” he breathed out, and Miguel startled at the sound of his voice, then laughed as he resumed pulling the panties up over the curve of his backside.
‘Beautiful,’ Miguel told him again as he pulled Amit forward.
His lingering pleasure was only intensified when Miguel slipped the silky gold fabric over his head, and with the most tender care, held his hands to get him into the sleeves. The buttons took longest since Miguel’s dominant hand only had one thumb, but Amit’s well of patience to wait for his lover was infinite.
When he was done, Miguel’s arms came around his waist and squeezed, and lips met the junction of his neck where he kissed flushed skin.
Eventually, Amit turned, and he saw his own perfect, endless love reflected back at him, and it was enough to make the air light.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Miguel asked.
Amit’s face split into a grin. He was still working on it, still unsure, still terrified in more ways than he could count. He still looked at himself in the mirror and wondered if he had discovered all the pieces that made him who he was—and he knew the answer was no. No, he hadn’t.
Not yet.
But he would.
With Miguel at his back, and the future ahead of him, Amit knew there was time.
And he planned to make the most of it.
Fin.
About the Author
E.M. Lindsey currently lives in the United States. Find them at their reader group Lindsey’s Liaison, on Bookbub, Patreon, or subscribe to their newsletter for the latest releases and free short stories.