Traditions

by Jane Davitt




The year before, Blair had treated Jim to a ten-minute lecture on the significance of the Yule log before lighting it.

As he'd been naked at the time, kneeling at Jim's feet, and punctuating his words with licks and nibbles at Jim's achingly hard cock, the lecture had been both wasted and interminable, but Jim had fond memories of the evening nonetheless.

He'd been left a wrung-out heap on the couch, panting and with a blissful smile on his face, too far gone to return the favor. Blair had rolled his eyes and, with the flames leaping up behind him, had jerked himself off right there in front of Jim, going back to his knees when they started to wobble and climaxing with a soft, intense moan that had done the impossible and rekindled Jim's own arousal.

Tonight, Jim planned to be the one in charge of events. He didn't mind repeating most of what had happened, but he was damned if he was going to sit through another discourse as dry as the wood had been.

He ran the red silk scarf through his hands and bit back a groan as his cock throbbed with anticipation. It would make a good gag, but he could think of a lot more he could do with it after he'd temporarily stemmed Blair's flood of words and lit the log without the lecture.

Maybe wrap it around Blair's hair like a ribbon of flame…or lace the expressive hands together, palm to palm, the silk woven around wrists and fingers, silencing them too, just for a moment…or slide it free to trail it over fire-warmed skin flushed hot with desire…tangle it around the complex shape of Blair's balls and the base of his cock, a twist of scarlet silk against dark hair and candy-cane sweet skin…

And then lay it, opened wide, as light as a snowflake over Blair's mouth and kiss him though it, tasting sweat and come and the dry rub of the silk as the fire blazed high, bright and hot.

Blair came back into the room. "I found the matches," he began and then saw the scarf in Jim's hands and raised his eyebrows in a question, a smile curving his lips. "New tradition?"

Jim grinned back and stood, walking over to Blair, the scarf dangling from his hand. "They've got to start somewhere, Chief."

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