Giving More

by Jane Davitt

Shawn's come is dry on Carlton's face, sticky in his hair. His cock's a stiff, rigid scream that Shawn's not listening to.

Carlton breaths out, his hands, forbidden to curl into fists, sticking to the sweat-damp skin of his thighs.

He's running out of time. Shawn's first words on arrival were to tell him that he was leaving at seven. There's a Magnum P.I. marathon he doesn't want to miss, apparently. Carlton knows he's lying as surely as he knows that Shawn will still leave in, God, six minutes.

He's on his own here if he wants to find relief. Shawn won't touch him. Not now. Carlton had called him 'Spencer' earlier, unthinking, so fucking stupid of him when he knows Shawn hates it, and Shawn's angry with him, a cold disapproval so different from the contempt Carlton craves, doled out in stinging slaps, Shawn's eyes warm if you know how to look at them just right.

He's lucky Shawn didn't leave right then, the slam of the door punctuating his frantic, gabbled apologies. He has issues, yes, but they pale compared to Shawn's with Henry, so determined that his name not be sullied by Shawn's actions, too stubborn to see that he's given Shawn the perfect weapon.

"You're pathetic," Shawn says, his voice lifeless, listless, none of the sneer and sizzle Carlton's used to, adores.

God, please don't get bored of this, of me. Not this soon. It's only been a month, Please.

"As pathetic as a fake psychic? I doubt that."

Sometimes Shawn likes a spark of rebellion to stamp out. Carlton, filled with a baffled gratitude and worry, is trying to say thank you in small ways as often as he can. Flowers and chocolate don't seem appropriate when what he's grateful for is Shawn's astonishing ability to twist his body with pleasure as keen and sharp as a cold wind. It's easy for Shawn to find the words and actions to reduce Carlton to nothing but sensation, pure and hot, humiliation intense and perfect stripping away every defense so that Shawn only has to reach out to be able to touch him at will these days.

And tonight, he fucking won't

"Yes, I really doubt that, Spencer," Carlton says, driven to breaking the one rule that he shouldn't, goaded by the remorseless tick of the clock and Shawn's glazed, indifferent eyes.

The backhanded slap across his face doesn't hurt, so Shawn thought about it before he delivered it, but it's enough. His climax rips through him, violent, painful, and Shawn's gone before it's over, but he's left angry, not bored, so he'll be back.

He'll want to make sure that Carlton apologizes properly, and Carlton's already planning how.

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