For the Asking

by Jane Davitt

Some nights, this is easier to ask for than Jim thinks he deserves. Some nights, he doesn't have to even say the words, just lie in bed a certain way, tilt his head questioningly, glance down the bared length of Blair's body and let his gaze linger on the thrust and promise of Blair's erection.

Just that.

He tried making it an order to salve his pride, but that didn't go down too well with Blair. He's learned to ask for it with the scales balanced equally or, if he's really in need of everything Blair's got, he can beg.

Nothing fancy required if he does. Blair takes 'please' as the surrender it truly is.

The lights go out -- Jim doesn't need them and Blair likes to glut his other senses at times like this, greedy for the taste of Jim's skin and the way it gives under his teeth and nails; insatiable, avid when it comes to the throaty, mewling whimpers Jim gives him in the friendly dark.

Then it's just Blair and the darkness and the slow, hard drive of Blair's dick into Jim's hole, filling him, fucking him, owning him, over and over until Jim can feel his body rebel, fight back against the intruder as he's been trained to do by so many men his whole goddamned life.

That's when Jim reaches back and fumbles for Blair's hand, squeezing it once.

Now. Hard. Take me. Make me -- help me.

It changes. Make him scream, make him melt, surrender, make him sob with pleasure from an aching throat, make him climax, make him wait for the belated mercy of Blair's mouth on him, Blair's come a messy, cooling trickle on his thighs.

What Jim wants (needs) might change, but what Blair gives him never does.

The perfect fuck. Every time he asks for it. Every time he begs.

Just the way he likes it.

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