Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

With his hand still gripping my boner, Rayne murmurs, "Jelly filling."

I laugh as the words do their job. He laughs, too, because he feels it.

"Oh my God, you're like a robot with a special cum code."

His voice gets me even harder. Unbelievable, since I just came—but this is how I am with Rayne. Almost hypersexual.

"Well, you know what I've gotta do now, McD,” he says. “I can't walk out to the car with you and this big boner." He rubs his palm over it, and my knees nearly buckle.

Vanny leads me to my desk chair. "Sit down, Pastor." He rubs his palm over my cock, and I lean my head against the chair’s back, gripping the armrests. He crouches down and moves his mouth close to my dick, so I feel his breath as he says, "Let me help relieve some of this...pressure."

He rubs his flat hand over me for a while, until I’m throbbing hard. Then he starts to stroke me. When I'm close to coming, he stops what he’s doing and sits on my cock, so I can come inside him.

I'm still shaking when he eases off me and holds his hands out for mine. "Let's hop in the shower. I was craving a blow job just now, and I still want a taste of what's mine."

I hesitate, and Vance's face falls. He covers it so quickly, someone who wasn't paying attention wouldn't notice—but I do, and it rips at my chest.

"Or we can go," he says smoothly. "It's been a long day. Let's grab noodles from that Vietnamese place on the way home. What do you think?"

I lean up and wrap an arm around his hard waist, pulling him back down on me, and I kiss his throat. "You know how much I love you?"

He kisses my cheek as I lift my head. "How much?" His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and my chest feels like something's melting inside.

"More than everything."

Rayne presses his face to mine for a second. "Let's go home, Sky."

6

Vance

It would be my fucking shoulder. Just went back to work after a long break caused in part by the trouble with my smashed-up and surgerized left elbow. Things are weird, I'm trying to keep my shit low-key, and I fuck up the damn right shoulder getting plowed on McD's desk.

He's asleep right now—at least, I hope he still is. Tonight was another night it took a long time for the poor guy to dial down. I curled myself around him from behind, unlike the other nights this week, when I was in front with my arms around him, and I think it helped. I make a mental note to try that sooner tomorrow night.

Then I uncork the wine bottle and gulp down some merlot. I don't even want much of this shit. Just enough to hose down the inferno that's ignited under the bones of my right shoulder. Or whatever's up there. Tendons, muscles. I don't know. It fucking hurts.

I should probably try to see a doctor, but I'm a little low on funds, and I'm not using Sky's, despite what he says. When we marry, if we have a joint account or something...I don't fucking know. I'm a giver, not a taker. I've known from square one that he’s loaded, but that's never mattered. I didn’t even think about it when we decided to get married.

Not that we're married yet. Not really. But we will be, and...I drink more merlot, leaning against the counter.

I'm not letting Sky pick up all my tabs. That's not how I'm made. And I'm successful. Moving out here drained my funds down some, plus all the marble that’s sitting in two atriums at Evermore, but that was unavoidable. I could tap into the account that's got deposits from people who're waiting for their sculptures, but shit... What if this right shoulder doesn't ever fully fix, or the elbow that had surgery doesn’t hold, starts getting worse instead of better?

The shoulder’s been bothering me for a few years, but it's never hurt like this before. If things went really sideways, I could end up having to refund some of my customers’ deposits. The amount they had to put down wasn’t small, and the contract stipulates each customer will get their piece within thirty-six months, max.

I take another long swig from the bottle, put the cork back in, and wander over to the living room. It's so damn opulent. I can't imagine growing up with wealth like this. Or with pressure like what Sky had. Even if his parents were mostly nice, and I believe they were, to think of getting sent away with your dad’s friends for a weekend of trying to get it up for pussy when your dick only gets hard for other dicks sounds right up there with torture. It's no wonder he feels so awful right now. I know it's gotta be a hell of a strain to be out with me. I feel another bolt of regret for being the one who outed him, even though he always says it's fine.