Can't Take the Heat

Daniel's staring up at me, his breath coming in short, high gasps, his face flushed and his eyes incredulous, furious and two shades darker. His fingers are fumbling with the buttons on his shirt but he's so busy glaring at me that he can't undo them.

I'll be lying when I tell him I'm sorry it happened.

His shirt has melted against his chest, clinging, soaked, saturated and drenched.

Ice-cold water, though. Can't feel good, even if it's giving me plenty to look at.

As I stare, the wet darkness spreads, racing outwards, and his left nipple hardens under the cool kiss, stiff with outrage.

I'm unrepentant, but I'm not laughing. Can't. Can't breathe.

The glass I'm still holding is warming up, sliding and squeaking as my fingers tighten around it.

The ice cube that's landed in the hollow of Daniel's throat disappears inside his shirt as he wrenches hard at a button and he chokes out a whimpered sound that wraps around my dick like a strong, hot hand.

My gaze tracks lower, following the trail left by one hell of a lot of ice water -- really thirsty, Jack, make it a big glass-- down to Daniel's lap. Most of the ice landed there, glistening, squared-off chunks, translucent around the edges, opaque towards the middle, and why do I care what they look like, because they're not hiding the curve and bump of Daniel's dick and the soft swell of his balls. Hell, his thin pants have gone transparent themselves, or as good as.

And there, centred perfectly on his zipper, is the half-moon of lemon I added to get an amused look from him, smiling up at me, sour and yellow.

I'd brought a napkin too, intending to bow low when I handed over the drink he'd demanded in an exhausted, hoarse whisper after collapsing onto my couch, yanking his chain by parodying the obsequious waiter we'd had when we went out to celebrate Carter's birthday.

Oh, yeah, I bowed. Caught my foot, tripped forward and half-drowned him, but I think there was a bow in there somewhere.

I fall to my knees and press the single, inadequate napkin against the ice and slice.

His hands freeze and his mouth opens on a moan. I reach up and slide my hand inside his shirt and find the ice lodged in the crease of his belly.

It's melting.

"Jack..." I've never heard him say my name like that before, shaky and dangerous. Then his fingers lock around my wrist and pull my hand away and down. He rubs the heel of my hand along his cock, really hard.

He moans to himself, not me, then leans back and spreads his arms wide, resting them along the top of the couch, and glances down at the buttons he never finished undoing.

I lean forward and begin to unfasten the buttons, starting at the bottom, watching him. He's still fucking furious but he's showing it in what I'm not getting; no smiles; lips tight and closed and still.

"I didn't do it --"

"Shut up."

The weight of the soaked cotton is cold and heavy against my fingers. It's hard to work the buttons through the holes but when I do I get a little bit more skin to look at. Wet skin shimmers. I'd never noticed that before.

Just tap water. Fuck, it wasn't even bottled...

I try again.

"No, really, I wouldn't --"

"Yes, you would." He's given up on making me stay quiet and he sounds so fucking certain I'm guilty that it's scary. "You're not a clumsy man, Jack. And you're good at getting what you want."

The tips of my fingers are numb. "You think I wanted this?" The final button gives way and I peel the soaked shirt off him and rub my chilled hands dry on my jeans.

"Me stripping bare in your house?" Daniel stands up and waits until I reach up and begin to undo his belt. The leather's difficult to handle when it's wet. "Yes."

His zip slides down smoothly though.

When I hook my fingers inside his pants and tug them down, briefs coming too, he grabs at his cock, easing it out just in time and giving me a filthy look.

A moment later he's naked in front of me, cock hard and swaying slightly with every breath he takes.

Daniel's distracting when he breathes.

I'm still not sure how far we're going with this. "I'd offer to lend you something, but nothing I have will fit you." Lie, total lie, but he looks good dressed in shivers.

Daniel glances down at me and smiles coolly. "Oh, you've got something I can squeeze into, I'm sure."

My mouth drops open and his fingers slide inside. "See?"

I suck them for him, heart hammering. Five minutes ago he wasn't even in the house, and now he's naked, and I'm kneeling, and somehow I don't think he meant my mouth, but there's no time to think, because he likes what I'm doing to his fingers enough to trust me with his cock and he's waiting for me to open up a little wider -- which I do -- and then I'm trying to remember how to swallow spit, breathe and suck, all at the same time.

His cock's cool at first and I think of it in my ass like that and press closer to him, my hands stroking down the front of his thighs, feeling the damp skin catch at my fingers.

He gives that self-contained, private moan again and I can't help digging my nails in, just to remind him I'm there, regretting it when he hisses angrily and steps back. His cock's flushed and warmer, glistening like his chest was, and he doesn't look happy.

"Get up."

I obey, wondering just why I am, because it's Daniel.

Then he smiles and I realise it's because it's Daniel.

"I can borrow something, get dressed, and go home," he says, blinking at me slowly. "Jerk off thinking of you and come when I let myself remember just how good you are at doing what you're told."

He gaze drops and his lips pout thoughtfully. Yes, take a look, Daniel. I'm hard. And just keep talking about your dick, your hand and me and see how long it takes before I need a change of clothes, too.

"Or you could carry on doing what I say until we've both come."

I swallow. "Daniel --"

"Two choices," he says and he's not backing down. God knows, that's a look I'm familiar with.

"Fine. I'll take the one where we come and we're in the same room," I snap. "And if you get off on it, I'll let you call the shots."

"I will," he says. "And so will you."

Not touching that one. Eight minutes. Fuck.

"But after, you tell me why you're this angry."

He's going to be in me as soon as I shut the hell up.

"Maybe," he says. "Give me your shirt."

He leaves it unfastened but he rolls up the sleeves.

Then he locks the doors and bends me over the kitchen counter.

He's silent as he stands behind me, his hands slipping around my waist in what would look like a hug and isn't, fingers busy. I hear his silence through the buzz and hum in my ears, a spill of sugar gritty against my hands, flat and wide on the counter.

It feels like rejection and when he pushes my head down so that he can stroke the back of my neck, sending a shiver though me, I'd swap it for my name in a whisper, no matter how good it feels.

He moves away and I hold position, just like on a freeze, tracking him by sound. He's getting a bowl and there's the crack of ice. Fuck. If he's going to get Old Testament on my ass...

A chair scrapes and he says, "Look at me."

I lift my head and he smiles, holding up an ice cube. It's sharp-edged and slippery and it's got all my attention as he licks at it slowly and then pushes it inside his mouth, rolling the ice on his tongue.

When he spits it into his palm, it's lost its shape. He stands, my shirt hanging on him loosely, and walks behind me.

I know there's something I can say to stop him but by the time I've worked out what it is there's the burn of ice, silky and hard, a rounded-off square of contradictions, and it's pushing hard against my asshole and I scream and babble and swear in one anguished rush of breath because it's fucking cold.

Daniel pats my ass and sits down. "Tell me when it's melted," he says and picks up a flyer advertising lawn care.

He doesn't even have a fucking window box but he reads it anyway.

"Look at me."

He peers at me over the flyer, smiles politely and nods.


"Has it melted?"

I can't tell. Maybe. I try a shrug and feel a piece work out of me -- God, cold, cold -- and slide down my thigh.

"Think so."

He walks over and I feel his fingertips rest lightly on my hips before he kneels and starts to lick his way from warm dry skin to cold and wet. His tongue's hot, oh God, it's hot, and it's flickering and lapping and dragging and I ate breakfast standing here, toast in my hand, staring blankly out of the window.


I have to breathe in and out twice before I can trust myself to answer and he bites me, nose nuzzling my balls as they contract, teeth nipping skin I've never seen, high and hidden. I hear myself whine out a protest and he licks away the sting and gets up.

"I need a condom."

"Left side of the bed, top drawer. But you don't have to --"

"Yes, I do."

Flat voice, giving me nothing, taking everything. I start to move and his hand smacks down beside mine, the sound hard and sharp. I can taste lemon and salt and cold and I can't breathe.

"Stay still. Move and I won't do this."

I want to ask him why he thinks I'd care now, but he goes around to the other side of the counter and leans on it in a perfect match to my own position, forearms flat, fingers spread. I focus on a smear across one lens of his glasses, half a fingerprint, smudged and imperfect and then slip past that to the waiting blue behind.

He leans in and kisses my mouth and it's too late, too soon, for kisses but I can't stop him and I don't turn away. I want to know how he'll do this. He closes his eyes and loses me again, shutting me out of what he's feeling, coaxing my lips open for his tongue to slip inside, pulling back a little when I copy him. He kisses me for a while, nothing touching but our mouths, moving in slow slides and rubs and then he draws back and says, "Don't move," again and I close my wet-damp mouth and nod sullenly.

His eyes narrow and he pinches up some of the spilled sugar and sprinkles it across the back of my knuckles.

Oh, nice, Daniel. Very fucking trusting.

He walks away without looking back, the tail of his --my-- shirt not quite covering his ass.

He's not gone long, and I know that because I'm counting silently to distract myself. I start thinking about what I look like, bare-assed and bent over, or the painful stretch of muscles down the back of my legs, and I'm going to move.

No thinking.

Daniel's doing enough of that for both of us.

He comes back and licks the sugar off my hands, leaning on his folded arms, taking his time.

Sugary spit dries sticky, stretching my skin, pulling it tight. Daniel runs his tongue across his lips and smiles at me, sweet and guileless as if he hasn't just gone down on my fucking fingers. I can't see my cock from here -- can't look anywhere but his face -- but I can feel it. The rest of my body has shut down, become irrelevant. The skin his tongue has left wet and the cock that's waiting for him to look at it, because that's all it would take. That's all I am.

Dizzy and hot and staring at him, waiting. This isn't arousal; this isn't desire. This is me giving Daniel what he wants because he's angry with me and this is me so close to breaking and asking him to fuck me that I can feel the weight of tears in my eyes and I know he'd lick them off me, too but I won't let him do that.

There has to be something I don't give him, and I decide it's that. There's a vicious ache in the small of my back and I shift, just a little, trying to ease it.

Daniel walks behind me and puts his hands on me and I'm moved back into position. The ache flares up again, bright and hot, and I don't care because his hands stay on me, slipping around, thumbs stroking, fingers teasing the coarse spring of hair around my cock. He tugs at it and rubs it between his fingers and then loses interest and palms my cock briefly, squeezing it roughly, casually, as if it isn't the first time he's touched it. I jerk and shiver and he leans the side of his face against my back and then turns his head so my shoulder blade gets kissed.

"You can come if you want, Jack," he whispers. "I don't mind."

I just bet he doesn't. I flash on Daniel drumming his fingers idly on the counter, waiting for me to finish, and swallow down amusement and hurt.

"Make me," I hiss back at him. "Get inside me, and make me, you asshole."

I twist my head around enough to smile at him, tight and angry, and miss the swift, sneaky dart of his hand as it closes around my balls and squeezes warningly.

He waits for me to stop smiling before his grip softens. Close call.

"You want me to fuck you?" he asks, distantly curious. I hear the rip of foil and turn away because I can't look while he puts it on. I want him bare, hot skin rubbing mine, and I'm getting Daniel once-removed because he's been fucking someone else and I'm close to snarling something I'll regret. "Well, that's a shock. Didn't see that coming. Haven't known about that for months and months and fucking months."


I start to turn and get two fingers shoved inside me, sharp and sudden so I don't have time to tense, hard and deep and slippery. Guess Daniel found the lube, because I know damn well I put the butter back in the fridge.

"You couldn't just tell me, could you?"

I'm getting tired now, a tremor running through my arms and legs, back aching. I'm riding his fingers, head down, breathing choppy and hoarse, cock hard and twitching and wet.

Daniel's hand presses down on the small of my back and his fingers screw into me just right, but it's the sound he makes as my ass clenches that has me trying to keep from coming.

"Had to do that. Had to make me look stupid, make me be the one --"

His fingers pull out of me and I bang my head against the counter in frustration, which hurts.

"Daniel, like I've been trying to tell you, I didn't do it on purpose, and you looked -- weren't we going to talk about this after?"

Why do I always end up yelling, as if volume makes what I'm saying convincing?

He slips his hand over my mouth to shut me up and I bite at it irritably, teeth sinking into the pad of flesh running along the base of his fingers. He doesn't stop me and he doesn't snatch his hand away. I give up on biting him and feel his hand settle into place, damp and warm against my lips.

"Yes, you did," he says into my ear, his other hand going back to where it was, fingers tracing slippery skin and then pushing inside me. He's straddling one of my legs, his cock cool and hard.

I open my mouth and lick along one of his fingers until he gives it to me to suck and then he moves and puts his cock in my ass in one smooth shove.

Hurts. Fuck. If this is what he's been doing with whoever he's been picking up, I bet he doesn't get many coming back for more. And he knows it hurt because he doesn't move until my hand unclenches and goes back to lying flat, fingers spread.

I close my jaw carefully after a breathless, soundless scream and his finger's still there. Trusting son-of-a-bitch. I should chew it bloody but my tongue wraps around it forgivingly and he sighs and I feel him relax.

Then he remembers he hates me, or something, and I get an extra inch or two rammed deep but that doesn't hurt, not really, not now he's in, and I spread wider, get comfortable, finally get that fucking kink out of my spine, and spit out his finger so I can say something.

"Get on with it, Daniel."

"Make me."

"Need my hands to do that."

He runs his thumbnail down my spine, nape of neck to ass, like he's striking a match, and I shudder and arch for him as my skin ignites. I suck at negotiating because when he murmurs, "No, I don't think so," and puts his hands over mine, trapping them, I give in.

He's snuggled up against me, the point of his chin sharp in my shoulder and his mouth wetting the skin on my neck as he sucks it just shy of marking me, like he knows how to do that. I try to think of any bruises he's been wearing recently but it's not like I get chance to stare, and he's always got some on him, new and fading; not like I can tell how he got them.

I've got to stop thinking about Daniel with someone else.

He rocks his hips, fucking me slowly, teasingly, barely pulling out before he eases back in, still tight up against me so I'm carrying his weight.

I'm shivering and so is he, or maybe we're trembling, because the afternoon sun's thick and soft, filling the room, and I'm not cold anywhere now, and neither is he.

He picks up speed, playing with me, still keeping the thrusts short and not giving me what I want. Still all about him. His fingers flex and slide over mine wet with spit and lube, fresh from being inside me.

"Touch me."

"I am."


He smiles against my skin and pinches my nipple hard.

That doesn't do much for me usually, and I let him know it by holding still and staying quiet. He sighs, shoves his thumb and finger into my mouth for me to give them a startled swipe, and does it again.

It shouldn't make any difference at all, but it does. The one he isn't hurting throbs as if he is, and my cock gets a jolt that has me seeing stars as I squeeze my eyes closed. I make a sound that hurts my throat and Daniel's hands sweep down my body and clamp onto my hips.

"Finally," he snaps out and I lose it, grinding my ass against him, feeling the prickle of hair and the soft tightness of his balls.

"Fuck me." I've never said that as an order before.

"Oh, I plan to, Jack."

He grabs at my hand and guides it down to my cock. His stays there long enough to make me hope it won't go away, his thumb swirling rough circles across the sticky-slick mess at the tip, but when I roll my head and moan, his hand smacks against my hip and he settles into fast and furious and hard.

He's not that good at it, but it's Daniel and he's a fast learner. I'm not giving up on him yet.

I feel him start to come and take my hand off myself. I'm not jerking off with him here. He can finish me with his hand, at least, and if he won't do that, he can damn well watch when I come and pay me some attention. I fuck air, caught up in his climax, feeling his fist hammer against me as he loses it. The muscles in his thighs are rigid, unyielding, and he says my name as he collapses against my back, sweaty and shaking.

I get him out of me a moment later and turn, grabbing a piece of kitchen roll and getting that fucking condom off him while he's still glazed-eyed and swaying.

Then I say, "Daniel," and look down and he blinks. I get as far as, "Oh, for --" and he falls to his knees and I come about ten seconds later, my hands in his hair, staring at his mouth and trying to remember the shape it makes with my cock in it.

He chokes, swallows, and I help him up and don't let go of his hand.

He's a mess, my shirt half off his shoulders, his hair sticking up, his face hot and his mouth swollen where he's bitten it, don't know when or why.

"You kept your glasses on."

He shrugs. "I wanted to see you."

I nod, feeling tired enough that it makes sense. I let go of him and go to the fridge and get out a nice, safe bottle of water and toss it to him. He catches it neatly and smiles, unscrewing the top and taking a small sip and then a gulp.

 I point towards my bedroom.

"I'm going to lie down."

"Room for two?"

"They make them that way," I tell him. "Sure; why not. You can tell me I'm a liar some more."

I walk away without looking back and fall down on my unmade bed, smothering a scream with the pillow as abused muscles protest. Half an hour and he's fucking worn me out. I roll to my back and stare at him as he walks over, tipping the bottle up to drink, his throat working as he swallows.

There's an inch of cool water left in the bottle when he turns it upside down and it splashes over my chest and gets lost in the grey hairs.

I give him a yelp and a shiver and then raise an eyebrow. "You did that on purpose."

"Obviously." He lies down beside me, after finally taking off his glasses and losing my shirt. He drags his finger over my wet skin and stares at it thoughtfully. "Did I hurt you?"

"Physically? Yes. Don't ever do that again. I mean it."

"I'm sorry."

He sounds a little startled, as if he was expecting a gold star. Fuck that. My asshole was -- it was there, I could feel it, and it was throbbing and swollen and --

"I'll live." I can't stop myself. "Who the hell have you been fucking to have picked up bad habits like that?"

He chews on his lip and looks stubborn.

"Fine. You asked; I told you. End of fucking story."

"And you really didn't do it deliberately?"

"Really didn't."

"I'm --"

"You said that already." I yawn. "You know I said I wanted to talk after we fucked?"

"You've changed your mind."


He's there when I wake up.

We still don't talk.

Maybe later.

No rush.

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