Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

I pull a little pack of lube out of my pocket, coat my fingers. "Ready?"

He groans, "Yeah."

"I know you are. That's my mister."

He laughs, even as I push into him. Then he groans so loud and rocks back to take my fingers deeper, and I nearly come in my pants.

"Now you're mine forever. I know how to make you squirm." I've gotten good at finding his hot button, so I do it now—just the slightest brush of my fingertip over his prostate, and he nearly comes undone.

"Oh fuck. Luke."

With my other hand, I find his cock, and he rolls over onto his back.

“Pump me,” he begs.

"I bet you wanna come fast, don't you? Can't have my guy going all day, these balls filling up..." I cup them, bouncing slightly.

"No," he breathes, stroking my leg with curling fingers. "Oh God, blow me, please. I want to feel your mouth."

"Or what?" I lick his balls, and Vance sounds like he might lose it when he says, "I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"Suck me, Sky. If you don’t want to let me fuck your throat, just lick around my head up there…"

I do as he asks, and I once I’ve got my tongue around him, I can't help sucking him into my mouth...and down my throat. I'm throbbing in my pants, so close to coming just from sucking his cock.

"I love you so much." He can't hear the words, but he can feel them, and I know it’s good because I taste his precum. I twirl my tongue around him and his ass comes off the bed.

"I'm close." He actually shudders, making me feel like the god I'm not. Then he tugs at my hair. "Get inside me." His voice is hoarse and shaky because he's so close.

I move my mouth off him and smile. He smiles back, looking drugged with desire. "That's what I've been waiting for,” he rasps. “Fill me up, Skywalker."

I'm so eager to be in him, it's painful to push my cock in. His whole body trembles as he takes me. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me down atop him, wrapping his arm around the back of my neck and his leg around my flank as I start pumping in him.

"God...oh fuck. Sky."

"I love you," I whisper. I give his rock-hard shaft a firm stroke, and he groans loudly, spasming around me as I draw my throbbing cock partway out.

"Love you," he says back, and as I push deep into him, his lips part and he comes all over his abs. It's his face that pulls me over the ledge with him—that look of pure, raw release. Bliss. I pull out with more haste than my usual and lie against his chest so I can brush my lips along his hard jaw.

"Fuck." He shudders.

I wrap him against me, cup his head as his mouth nibbles at the nook between my neck and shoulder.

"Love you, Rayne."

"Love you more, husband."

"Don't forget it, even when I have an off day,” I say. “Promise?"

“Swear.”

We eat the veggie burgers we grabbed on our way here and drift, watching the Golden Gate as night falls like a curtain, framing us safely together, here where no one can hurt Rayne or come between us. Maybe that’s what I like about being out on the water. When Rayne asks what I’m thinking, I tell him the ocean is safer than the land.

“That seems sad,” he says quietly.

His hand folds around mine. His other arm, around my shoulder, pulls me closer. Queer. I think about the word as we sit, wrapped against each other there on the deck. To some people, that’s all we are—just two-dimensional gay men, written off by every bigot and by folks who just don’t get it; they don’t know anybody that’s openly gay, and never have, and maybe never will.

And while intellectually I know it doesn’t matter—I don’t need them—there’s logistics. Some of them file into my sanctuary every Sunday. Also, stacked on top of that—on top of pride; my pride, and inexorable self-involvement—it just…sort of hurts. Now that I’m out, I feel the weight of this…judgment all the time. Even when no one near me is actively judging. Even when no one says a word. Just knowing that the sentiment is out there, that it’s earmarked for me. That there are people on forums in dreary, hate-filled corners of the internet talking about me, talking about Vance. Hating on both of us.

“Sometimes I want to move to Timbuktu,” I whisper.

“I’ll go with you anywhere,” he says.

It’s all I need. Vance is all I ever need to make the world feel right again. To make it feel like I can breathe.

We go back to the bed and wear each other out again, and then he falls asleep, rocked by the dark water, and I find a nice spot to drop our anchor. We sleep under a light fleece, curled into each other, for most of the night.