Jim walked through the open doorway onto the patio and paused. Blair was on his back, eyes closed, in possession of the only full-length, reclining chair Jim owned. It didn't get used much but Cascade was in the grip of a heat wave and Blair had dragged it up from the basement storage, aired the musty cushion, and staked a claim.

Blair had stripped down to a brief pair of shorts, cutoffs made from a treasured pair of jeans that had gotten so threadbare Jim had threatened to arrest him for indecent exposure if he wore them in public again. Blair had taken a pair of scissors to the jeans, hacking the legs off high in an uneven, scalloped line, so that his inner thigh on one side was bared to the point where Jim could see the shadow and swell of his balls.

The top button was undone and the worn metal of the zipper teeth had parted under the gentle push of Blair's breath, unraveling like the hem and exposing the flat, sweat-slicked whorls of hair, dark against the pale skin.

Those shorts were, and always would be, an incitement to riot, but they were also a signal of sorts.

Jim was tired, a little wiped out by a long week at work, head aching from the drive home with the sun reflecting off every polished surface, golden daggers aimed at his eyes. A shower, a cold beer drunk inside, his back to the deep blue sky; that had been the sum of his desires.

Not now.

Now he wanted to fuck Blair, ride the brief wave of energy seeing him sprawled out like that had created and then get back to the planned program.

He took a single step and frowned. Blair's body was glistening, the toast-tan skin glittering with sweat and shiny with sunscreen applied liberally. Jim couldn't argue with the need to protect Blair's skin from burning, but he resented the fact that the body on show might as well have been behind glass as far as his mouth was concerned. No way he wanted to spend the rest of the evening with his lips sliding against each other, oiled, uneasy, and the smell and taste of the sunscreen coating his nose and throat.

He stepped back and went upstairs, stripping down to shorts himself. He gave his dick an absentminded caress through the thin fabric and then leaned on the balcony railing and studied Blair's not-so-distant body.

Hard? Yes. Had been since before Jim's key had been fitted into the lock, Jim was sure of it. Blair had probably been lying there waiting, somnolent and drowsy, his warm hands lax at his side, his brain supplying all the stimulation he needed. Blair could talk himself hard; Jim had seen him do it.

He gathered what he needed and went out into the heavy syrup of the early evening light, feeling his exposed skin prickle a warning he ignored. They weren't going to be out here all that long and his skin had lost its winter-white weeks ago.

Blair's eyes stayed closed but the corners of his mouth tilted up in a smile and then his lips shaped a single word.

Jim smiled down at him and felt a rush of affection, separate from the love that was always there. He draped a black scarf over Blair's eyes and murmured, "Put it on."

It wouldn't blindfold Blair effectively out here in the light, but Blair kept his eyes closed when he was blindfolded anyway. Jim had lain beside him once for a long time, just listening to the scrape and scratch of Blair's eyelashes as they brushed the silk with each infinitesimal tremor of his eyelids.

"You do it," Blair said, skirting the edge of what was permissible in the way of defiance with a well-practiced ease.

They played these games so rarely that it always astonished Jim how quickly Blair reassumed his role; no hesitation, no self-conscious words or looks.

Rarely, but that didn't mean they were needed. Never planned -- but Jim could recognize the warning signs in Blair's demeanor and he always knew when the restlessness building within himself would reach a peak.

Last time, three months ago maybe, it had been Blair who'd initiated it, handling Jim's bound, bowed body with an assurance that hadn't broken until Jim did, slow tears trickling, unheeded, down his face because Blair was hurting him and it felt too good to bear unmarked by emotion, muscles in his cheek aching from biting back the begging, pleading words Blair had told him he couldn't say.

"What I give," Blair had whispered in his ear, fierce, intent. "That's all you get, Jim, you hear me? I don't want you to beg for more because that means I'm not giving you enough and I will, I promise I will. I'm going to give you everything this time, everything you want."

Jim shrugged, needing to respond physically even though Blair couldn't see him. "If that's what you want."

Loaded, coded words…

He tied the scarf with a brisk efficiency the heat resented, calling for languid, lazy, slow, and then lashed Blair's wrists to the framework of the chair, level with Blair's hips, drawing Blair's arms almost straight, but not quite, so that he could reach the damp hollow of Blair's armpits if he wanted to.

Blair made an indescribably contented, smug sound deep in his throat and arched his hips blatantly, his foot describing a circle, his toes wriggling.

Jim knelt beside the chair. leaned over, and kissed the sweat-salted lips, indifferent to their response, doing exactly what he wanted to one of the few places on Blair that still tasted of him. He kissed Blair breathless, painting the pouting mouth with spit and bites, and then pushed two fingers, dripping with red wine from the glass he'd brought out past the snap of teeth. He fucked Blair's mouth with them and smiled at the attempts Blair made to keep them captured, deep, where he could suck them clean. The wine was spicy, peppery, from a bottle they'd opened the day before and not finished, and Jim licked a drop of it from Blair's chin and stilled his fingers for a moment or two to let Blair do as he pleased with them.

Blair loved doing this, often dragging Jim's hand to his mouth as they fucked, silencing himself effectively, sucking avidly, worshipfully at a single finger, sometimes two until Jim couldn't take the dual, doubled sensations any longer and came making enough noise for both of them.

He groped for the second glass beside the chair and scooped up a handful of ice, ignoring the discomfort of his rapidly chilling skin as he picked a target on Blair's ody.

Then, decided, he held his closed, clenched hand over Blair's nipple and let the ice melt down, drip and splash, prudently drawing his fingers out of Blair's mouth before the first drop landed.

"Fuck!" Blair writhed, gasping, mouth open wide, his voice an outraged squeak. "Jim, you bastard. You sadistic -- No! Fuck!"

Jim lapped cautiously at the rigid, pebbled skin and grimaced. "Sorry, sweetheart," he murmured with a solicitous mendacity. "I can still taste sunscreen."

"I'll wipe it off, I'll shower, I'll burn next time, I swear, just don't--"

"I don't want you to burn," Jim said, opening his curled fingers a little and letting a stream of melt water cascade down by way of reproof. Blair howled and jerked violently enough that the chair legs scraped the concrete of the patio with a muted screech of protest. "You burn deliberately and I'll make your ass match whatever shade of red you turn and I'll keep it that color until you've stopped peeling."

"Promises, promises," Blair snarled.

The pulse beating in Blair's neck was fast and furious but his dick was quivering, pushing against the denim and the zipper until the head poked out, rosy and damp. Jim grinned and swept his hand down, fast enough that Blair's comprehending whimper of shock came too late.

"I didn't put sunscreen there," Blair gritted out when he'd stopped cursing.

The ice in Jim's palm had gone from blunt-edged cubes to shards to water; his hand was empty now.

He tugged the zipper down and peeled the denim back.

Then he burrowed his icy wet hand down to cup Blair's balls and watched Blair melt for him, helplessly squirming, grinding against the demanding pressure of Jim's palm.

He took his gaze away from the glazed stickiness over the head of Blair's dick and stared up at Blair's face.

Blair's eyes opened, silk-veiled, hazy with arousal, and met his and Blair's lips shaped the same word they had before.

It was always 'yes'. Always.

Ignoring the bone-deep ache in his hand, Jim scooped up more ice and continued playing, smiling, knowing Blair could see it, feel the warmth of it on his skin.


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