Why do I do this to myself?
The question appeared on the glowing screen, each letter a small accusation. It was a question Tom Ellison had asked himself countless times, a silent mantra in the quiet moments of his life. His to-do list, a meticulously organized column of tasks in his browser's notepad, seemed to mock him with its length, a near-perfect mirror to the number of times he'd posed that very question.
It was the 23rd of December. Outside his office window, the world was dissolving. The mild rain the meteorologists had cheerfully predicted for Christmas had arrived early, and it had not come to play. It had come to conquer. The sky was a bruised, weeping canvas, and the city below was drowning.
Tom, 27, was a man who believed in order. His dark straight hair was always neat, his green eyes sharp and focused on the next objective. His physique was a testament to discipline, toned and maintained through three weekly workouts that were as non-negotiable as a business meeting. His plan for the day was a fortress of logic: leave work on time; go to the Fullerton Toy Store and pick up the reserved gifts for nephews Scott and Todd; go home, finish packing; be ready for the 4 a.m. Uber pickup on the 24th; fly to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with his sister Helen, her husband Bill, and the two boys.
But the fortress was under siege. The power in his office building flickered, a nervous, stuttering pulse of light before plunging the floor into darkness, only to be rudely resurrected moments later. The backup generators, supposed to be silent, reliable guardians, coughed and sputtered but refused to engage. To cap it off, a last-minute, critical security patch had landed on his desk, a digital fire that demanded to be extinguished before he could even think about leaving.
Two hours late, Tom finally escaped the building. The bus he caught was a sanctuary of warmth and rattling windows, a temporary bubble against the torrential assault. Three miles down the road, the bubble burst. The bus groaned to a halt at Walnut Street and Broadmore Parkway. Ahead, the underpass, usually a mundane dip beneath the railroad tracks, was now a murky, churning lake. "All passengers, please disembark," the driver's voice crackled, flat and final.
Tom stepped off the bus and directly into two inches of cold, grimy water. A sharp, defeated sigh escaped him as his leather shoes and wool socks instantly became saturated. He pulled out his phone, the screen a beacon of hope against the encroaching dusk, his thumb swiping to find the best walking route to the toy store. In that moment of distraction, his foot caught on an unseen obstacle, a submerged curb, a loose piece of debris, it didn't matter. He stumbled, and the phone slipped from his grasp. It seemed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second, a perfect, black rectangle, before it hit the asphalt with a wet slap and skittered directly into a storm drain, disappearing into the roaring darkness below.
Brad Smith saw him get on the bus. He always saw Tom. For months, the man with the dark hair and the intense green eyes had been a fixed point in Brad's daily landscape. Brad, 28, was Tom's mirror in height and build, but that's where the resemblance ended. His blond hair was a couple of weeks overdue for a trim, falling soft and unruly over his forehead. He didn't live by the clock; he flowed with it. A law clerk content to do the firm's grunt work, he didn't stress. He just… was. He saw Tom step off the bus, saw the slump of his shoulders, and felt that familiar, unwelcome thud in his chest, the heat that bloomed low in his groin. It was an attraction so potent, so immediate, it felt like a physical force.
And then he saw him fall.
He was only a few steps behind. He watched the phone disappear, watched Tom's face crumble from frustration into utter defeat. It was an opening. A crack in the other man's perfect, self-contained world. Brad’s heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. He took a breath and closed the distance.
"Tough break," he said, his voice calm, even. He kept his eyes on Tom's face, forcing himself not to look at the soaked fabric clinging to his toned chest. "I'm Brad."
Tom looked up, his green eyes wide with shock and despair. “Tom Ellison.” He said nothing more, just stared.
"I don't carry one of those," Brad said, nodding toward the drain. "Makes it too easy for them to find me after hours." He offered a small, disarming smile. "But my apartment is just a mile from here. If we walk two blocks east, we can get over the tracks. You can at least get dry, figure out your next move."
The two men started walking, the rain a relentless curtain around them. Tom was a torrent of anxious chatter. "I'm never going to make it. The store closes at seven. It's already after seven, isn’t it. Scott and Todd… they're going to be so disappointed."
"Dude, Tom," Brad said gently, his voice a low counterpoint to the storm. "You can only do your best. I'm sure your nephews will understand."
Tom shook his head, water flying from his hair. "You don't know them. The way they act, you'd think the presents I bring are the only reason they're happy to see me."
Brad didn't press it. If that were true, it was a sad testament to that relationship. Brad just led the way through the deluge. When they finally reached his building and stumbled inside, they were dripping, shivering messes. “I’m going to flood your apartment. I’m way too wet.”
“It’s only water,” replied Brad. “It’ll mop up.” He reached toward Tom’s elbow. “Come on.” Brad led him to the elevator bank and they rode up to the fourth floor. At the end of the concrete floored corridor stood the door to number 425. Tom stopped dead just inside the door of the apartment, his jaw slack.
The place was a Christmas wonderland. A massive, slightly-too-large tree dominated the living room, draped in shimmering blue and silver ornaments. Several nativity scenes were arranged on various surfaces, their wooden and papier maché figures serene in the warm glow of tiny lights. Over the fireplace, a meticulously counted cross-stitch piece declared, in elegant script, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season." Tom couldn't help but notice one thing missing: not a single wrapped present was nestled beneath the tree's boughs.
"Wow," Tom managed, his voice hoarse.
Brad just shrugged, a faint blush on his cheeks. "I like Christmas. Reminds me that someone loves me." He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with his own phone. After a few taps, he held it out. ‘Fullerton Toy Store.’ “Maybe they’re open late for last minute shoppers.”
Tom took it, his cold fingers brushing Brad's warm ones. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up his arm. He put the phone to his ear, his heart pounding with a fragile, renewed hope. A cheerful, prerecorded voice answered. "We're so sorry! Due to unexpected weather-related flooding in our entryway, the Fullerton Toy Store is closed for the rest of the day. We apologize for any inconvenience…"
Tom’s arm dropped; the phone slipped slightly, but Tom's grasp remained firm. Brad took the phone; he’d heard the message. Tom’s face looked as if all hope were gone. Tom stared into the Christmas lights. He remembered somewhere he’d read that blue was the color of hope.
"More bad news," Brad said softly, nodding toward the TV he'd just switched on. The weather anchor looked grim, pointing to a map of the airport. "They've shut it down. Flooding, power outage. Control tower's down, half the gates are out."
"You should probably call about your flight," Brad added.
Tom's hand went to his pocket, a reflexive act of modern man, and came up empty. The memory of the phone vanishing into the dark water flooded back. "It's… it's tomorrow," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Things might be better by then."
Brad looked at him, his expression a mixture of pity and something else, something softer. "Yeah. Maybe." He took a step closer. The air between them felt thick, charged with the storm outside and the storm inside. "In the meantime, you can't stay in those wet clothes. I've got some sweatpants and a t-shirt you can borrow. We can hang yours in the shower so they don't drip all over the place."
As if on cue, the sound of the rain intensified, a sudden, deafening roar against the windows. "Once it lets up, I'll drive you home. Until then," Brad held out a bundle of folded clothes, his fingers brushing against Tom's again, the contact lingering just a second too long, "change into these. I'll make some hot tea. Do you like hot tea?"
For the first time all day, Tom really looked at Brad. He saw the kindness in his eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth, the way his damp blond hair curled at his temples. He saw a handsome, kind face. "I'd love some hot tea," he heard himself say.
He emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, feeling strange and vulnerable in the burnt orange sweatpants and the burnt orange UT Longhorn tee. He was barefoot, the warmth of the apartment finally able to seep into his chilled soles. Brad disappeared for a moment and returned, and Tom couldn't help it, a laugh escaped him, a real, genuine laugh. It felt rusty, unused. Brad was wearing the exact same outfit.
"Toes cold?" Brad grinned. "I'll get us some socks." He returned with two pairs of thick, woolly socks, one in a garish cardinal red.
"Sorry," Brad said, handing the red pair to Tom and keeping the burnt orange ones for himself. "They're the only unused ones I've got. A lab partner in college gave them to me because I always wore UT stuff. He was from Arkansas."
"But you kept them?" Tom asked, pulling on the surprisingly soft socks.
"I knew I'd need them one day," Brad replied, his gaze holding Tom's for a long moment.
Brad boiled water, and while waiting, he mopped up the floor where the two men had stood upon entering the one-bedroom apartment. A few minutes later, Brad was pouring the hot water over the tea bags, the clinking of the mugs a gentle percussion against the drumming of the rain. He handed one to Tom, their fingers brushing yet again, a spark of contact that neither man pulled away from. They settled onto the couch, the cushions sighing beneath their weight. The space between them was small, a deliberate and careful distance that felt both too vast and dangerously intimate.
Brad picked up the remote. "The news is just going to make you more stressed," he said, clicking off the TV. The room fell into a softer light, the Christmas tree and its strings of tiny lights becoming the primary source of illumination. He fumbled with his phone for a moment, and soon, the sound of a gentle piano and strings filled the silence, a soft instrumental version of "O Holy Night." The music was a fragile beauty, intermittently swallowed and amplified by the surges of rain against the glass.
They sat in silence for a long time, sipping their tea. The warmth spread through Tom, chasing away the chill that had seeped into his bones, but it did nothing to soothe the frantic energy still coiled in his gut. He felt adrift, untethered from his schedule, his plan, his entire life. He stared into his mug, watching the steam rise and dissipate.
"I don't know what to do," he finally admitted, his voice quiet. "My whole day… my whole week… was mapped out. Now everything's just… gone. I can’t even call my sister; her phone number is in my contacts list. I don’t know it."
Brad turned to him, his face half in shadow, half in the warm glow of the fairy lights. "Having plans interrupted is not such a bad thing."
Tom looked at him, confused. "How is it not a bad thing? I've failed. My nephews won't have their gifts. I'll probably miss my flight. I'm just… sitting here. I’m not doing anything"
"You're not just sitting here," Brad said, his voice low and even. "You're warm. You're dry. You're safe. You're here." He paused, and the weight of that last word hung in the air between them. He set his mug down on the floor and turned slightly, his knee pressing lightly against Tom's thigh. "You spend so much time trying to get to the next thing, Tom. The next task, the next destination. What if you're already where you're supposed to be?"
The music swelled, a soaring crescendo that was immediately drowned out by a deafening crack of thunder. Tom flinched, and in that moment of instinctual fear, Brad's hand was on his arm, a warm, steady weight. "It's okay," Brad murmured. "It's just noise."
But it wasn't just noise. It was everything. The storm, the failed plan, the kindness of a stranger, the overwhelming proximity of this man who was looking at him with an expression that was so much more than simple pity. Tom could feel the heat from Brad's hand seeping through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, a point of contact that seemed to send a current directly to his own groin, a slow, undeniable awakening. He looked from Brad's hand to his eyes, and the air grew thick, heavy with unspoken questions. The scent of pine from the tree and the clean, damp smell of rain filled his senses, mingling with the faint, masculine scent of the man beside him.
"I…" Tom started, but the words wouldn't come. His carefully constructed world, the one of lists and deadlines and control, had been washed away, leaving behind something raw and uncertain and terrifyingly exciting. He was aware of every inch of space between them, of the rise and fall of Brad's chest, of the way the lights reflected in his blue eyes, turning them to pools of liquid silver.
Brad didn't move his hand. Instead, his thumb began to trace a slow, deliberate circle on Tom's forearm. The touch was feather-light, but it burned. "You're allowed to just be, Tom," Brad whispered, his voice a husky promise that was louder than the storm. "You're allowed to not have the answer. You’re here. I’m here. Do you need more right now?"
The permission hung in the air, a fragile, radical concept that Tom's mind couldn't quite grasp but his body understood instantly. The slow circle of Brad's thumb on his arm was no longer just a touch; it was a conversation, a question, an invitation. The storm outside raged, but inside, the world had shrunk to this single point of contact, this unbearable, thrilling warmth.
Tom's breath caught. He could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat, a frantic beat that seemed to echo the rhythm of Brad's thumb. He turned his head fully, his green eyes locking onto Brad's. The distance between them was nothing now, a sliver of air charged with everything they weren't saying. He saw the desire there, plain and unguarded, but also a profound gentleness, a patience that was slowly undoing him.
"Brad," Tom whispered, the name feeling foreign and sacred on his tongue. It was an admission of defeat, a surrender, and a beginning all at once.
That was all it took.
Brad leaned in, closing the final inch. The first touch of his lips was a question, soft and hesitant, tasting of slightly sweetened black pekoe tea and the rain. Tom froze for a heartbeat, his entire being screaming in protest against this deviation from the plan, this surrender to chaos. But then his body, starved for a kindness he hadn't known he was missing, took over. He leaned into the kiss, his lips parting slightly in a silent, desperate yes.
The kiss deepened, no longer a question but an answer. Brad's hand slid from Tom's arm to the back of his neck, his fingers combing into the damp hair at his nape, pulling him closer. Tom's own hand came up to rest on Brad's chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart through the soft cotton of the identical tee. The touch was electric, a confirmation that this was real, that he was here, in this absurdly wonderfully decorated apartment, with this man he'd never spoken to before tonight, and it felt more right than anything on his meticulously planned to-do list ever had.
The music swelled again, a mournful, beautiful version of "Silent Night," and the rain seemed to soften to a hush, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Brad pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Tom's, his breath warm against Tom's lips.
"See?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Tom's entire body. "Still here. Still safe."
Tom let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. He was safe. He was more than safe. He felt the last of the tension drain from his shoulders, replaced by a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the tea or the apartment's warmth. It was an internal heat, pooling low in his belly, a direct response to the solid presence of the man beside him.
He tilted his head, capturing Brad's lips again. This time, the kiss was different. It was no longer a surrender. It was a choice. Tom's hand fisted in the front of Brad's sweatshirt, pulling him flush against him. There was no space left between them, only the shared warmth of their bodies, the soft fabric of their matching ridiculous outfits, and the desperate, hungry need to drown in the moment, to let the storm outside rage on while they created their own.
Brad's other hand came to rest on Tom's thigh, his grip firm and possessive. The touch sent a jolt straight through him, and Tom gasped into Brad's mouth. The soft instrumental music, the twinkling lights, the scent of pine, it all faded into a blissful, irrelevant backdrop. The only things that were real were the rain on the roof, the hammer of his own heart, and the undeniable, thrilling fact that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The kiss on the couch became a world of its own. It was a slow, deep exploration, a conversation without words where lips and tongues learned the shape of want and need. Tom, who had spent his life moving forward, found himself wanting to stay right here, to get lost in the sensation. His hand, which had been resting on Brad's chest, began to move of its own accord, tracing the solid line of his torso down to his thigh. He felt the firm muscle beneath the soft sweatpants, and a new kind of confidence, a primal instinct, took over.
His fingers drifted inward, tracing the seam of the pants until they brushed against the warmth of Brad's inner thigh. He hesitated for a breath, then let his hand travel the last few inches. His fingers made contact with the hard, thick shape straining against the fabric, and Brad let out a sharp, ragged gasp into his mouth.
Tom pulled back, his eyes wide, a thrill shooting through him at the reaction he'd caused. He looked down at his hand, then back at Brad's face, which was flushed and slack with pleasure.
"Wow," Brad breathed, his voice thick and husky. He looked at Tom, his blue eyes dark with desire. "I'm sorry. I have to tell you. You've been doing that to me… since the first time I saw you on the bus. Weeks ago."
A slow, genuine smile spread across Tom's face, a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated delight. "You're doing the same thing to me," he admitted, his voice a low, confident rumble. "Right now. And probably the first time I saw you, too, I just didn't let myself think it."
Brad let out a hard, explosive breath, a sound of pure, overwhelming release. He leaned his head back against the couch cushions, his eyes closed. "Whew. Okay. I need to… I need to catch my breath."
After a moment, he opened his eyes, a new, brighter light in them. "Hey," he said, his voice softer now. "Do something crazy for me?"
Tom grinned, the playful energy returning. "Maybe."
Brad laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Not a crime or anything bad." He pushed himself up from the couch. "Hold on." He disappeared down a short hall and returned a moment later with an armful of thick, fluffy quilts. He spread them out on the floor, creating a soft nest that started partially under the boughs of the giant Christmas tree and flowed out into the room. He lay down on his back, patting the space beside him. "Come here. Look up into the lights with me. I've always wanted to do this with someone special."
Someone special.
The words hit Tom with the force of a physical blow. They weren't just words; they were a declaration. They were a key turning in a lock he hadn't even known was there. He moved from the couch and settled onto the quilts next to Brad, their shoulders touching. He looked up into the dense branches of the tree. The blue and silver lights blurred and sparkled, like a captured galaxy, and the scent of pine was rich and enveloping.
In the quiet, magical glow, Tom looked at Brad's profile, at the way the lights reflected in his blond hair and illuminated his peaceful face. And he knew. Brad wasn't just a kind stranger in a storm. He wasn't just an unexpected attraction. He was special. Truly, deeply special.
"I think," Tom said, his voice barely a whisper, "that you're the special one in the room."
Brad turned his head to look at him, his eyes shining with an emotion that went far beyond simple lust. Tom didn't give him a chance to reply. He rolled over, shifting his weight until he was half on top of Brad, and he kissed him. It wasn't like the kisses on the couch. This was deep, passionate, and possessive. It was a kiss that claimed and promised all at once.
As their mouths moved together, Tom's hand slid beneath the hem of Brad's matching UT t-shirt. His palm flattened against the warm, smooth skin of Brad's stomach, then traveled upward until it cupped the firm muscle of his pectoral. He felt the rapid beat of Brad's heart against his wrist. Slowly, deliberately, he rubbed his thumb back and forth over Brad's nipple, feeling it pebble and harden under his touch, drawing a sharp, pleased hiss from the man beneath him.
The kiss deepened, losing its frantic edge and settling into a rhythm of slow, deliberate exploration. There was no rush now. The storm outside could rage for a week; their world had shrunk to this small, warm island of quilts beneath the glittering branches. Tom's hand remained under Brad's shirt, his thumb still stroking the hardened nipple, a slow, hypnotic circle that made Brad's breath hitch.
Brad's response was a soft, contented hum against Tom's lips. His own hand, which had been resting on Tom's back, began to move. It slid down the ridge of his spine, tracing the powerful muscles, before coming to rest on the curve of his hip. He held Tom there for a moment, a simple, grounding touch, before his hand drifted around to the front. His fingers splayed across Tom's lower abdomen, a tantalizing pressure, before they moved lower still.
Through the thick fabric of the burnt orange sweatpants, Brad's palm finally closed around Tom's erection. The touch was firm, confident, and utterly possessive. Tom broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, his head falling forward onto Brad's shoulder. The jolt of pleasure was so intense, so unexpected, it stole the air from his lungs. He could feel the heat of Brad's hand even through the layers of cotton, a brand of ownership that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Oh, Brad," Tom breathed, his voice ragged.
In response, Brad just tightened his grip slightly, a slow, deliberate squeeze that sent another wave of heat coursing through Tom's veins. It was an unspoken question, and Tom knew the answer. His own hand, which had been stilled by the shock of pleasure, began to move again. It slid from Brad's chest down the soft skin of his stomach, his fingers tracing the line of his waistband. He hesitated for only a second before slipping his hand beneath the elastic of the sweatpants.
Brad was hot and hard, the skin impossibly smooth. Tom's fingers explored, wrapping around the thick shaft, and he felt Brad's whole body tense in anticipation. Then, Tom's fingers found the soft, delicate skin of his foreskin. He'd never done this before, never touched another man like this, but his body seemed to know what to do. He began to manipulate it, a slow, gentle rolling motion, pulling it back over the slick head before covering it again.
Brad squirmed, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. His back arched slightly, pushing himself deeper into Tom's hand. The reaction was instantaneous and powerful. Tom felt a surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure, not from his own touch, but from the effect his touch was having on Brad. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling, a joy in giving that was more potent than any he had ever known. He continued his slow, deliberate ministrations, watching Brad's face, mesmerized by the play of emotions flickering across his features in the twinkling light.
The tension in the air became a palpable thing, a thick, humming current that connected them. Brad's breathing grew harsher, his hips beginning to move in a subtle, involuntary rhythm against Tom's hand. Tom knew what he wanted to do next. It felt like the most natural, most right thing in the world.
He slowly withdrew his hand, ignoring Brad's soft whimper of protest. He shifted his body, moving down the quilts until he was kneeling between Brad's spread legs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the sweatpants and, with a look of silent question, began to pull them down. Brad lifted his hips, helping him, and the fabric slid away, revealing him completely in the soft, multi-colored glow of the tree.
Tom paused for a moment, simply looking. He saw not just an act of sex, but an act of profound trust. He leaned down, not with hunger, but with reverence, and gently pressed his lips to the head of Brad's penis. It was a soft, dry kiss, a promise. Brad shuddered, a full-body tremor.
Tom's mouth opened then, and he took him in, slow and careful. He used his lips and his tongue, exploring the sensitive ridge, the velvety skin of the shaft. His fingers wrapped around the base, holding him steady as his mouth began a slow, languid rhythm. He was lost in the sensation, the weight on his tongue, the taste of his skin, the quiet, desperate sounds Brad was making above him. Every gasp, every twitch of Brad's muscles, was a gift. Tom wasn't just performing an act; he was worshipping. He was receiving his own pleasure, a deep, resonant satisfaction, from the act of giving Brad his.
The rhythm was everything. A slow, hypnotic slide of lips and tongue, a gentle pressure from his hand, a worshipful devotion that built a tension so thick it was almost a physical presence in the room. Brad's breathing had dissolved into a series of ragged, broken moans, his hands fisted in the quilts on either side of his body, his knuckles white. The soft glow of the Christmas lights painted his skin in shifting hues of blue and silver, turning his sweat-sheened form into a living masterpiece.
Tom could feel the change in him. The subtle tensing of his thighs, the way his hips began to lift from the quilts in a silent, desperate plea. Brad's hand shot out, not to push Tom away, but to tangle in his dark hair, the grip loose and trembling. "Tom," he gasped, the name a raw, ragged sound. "Tom, I'm…"
Tom didn't stop. He didn't change his pace. He simply took him deeper, his tongue pressing against the sensitive underside, his hand stroking in perfect counterpoint. He wanted this. He wanted to be the one to undo him, to shatter the careful control of this man who had shown him such kindness.
With a final, shuddering cry that was half Tom's name and half a sob of pure release, Brad came. Tom held him through it, feeling the powerful pulses against his tongue, swallowing the evidence of his pleasure. It was an act of ultimate intimacy, a final, unspoken surrender.
When the tremors subsided, Tom gently released him, pressing one last soft kiss to his hip before moving back up the quilts. He lay beside Brad, pulling him into his arms. Brad was boneless, pliant, his face buried in the crook of Tom's neck. His breath came in hot, shaky puffs against Tom's skin. For a long time, they just lay there, the only sounds the soft Christmas music and the diminishing patter of the rain against the windows.
Finally, Brad stirred, lifting his head. His blue eyes were luminous, dazed, and filled with an emotion so raw and open it made Tom's chest ache. He looked at Tom as if he were seeing him for the first time, and as if he were the only thing he would ever need to see.
"Wow," Brad whispered, his voice hoarse. He reached up, his fingers gently tracing Tom's jawline. "Just… wow."
Tom smiled, a soft, tired, utterly content smile. He leaned in and kissed Brad, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and shared secrets. When he pulled back, Brad's hand slid down from his jaw to his chest, then lower, until it rested over the unmistakable, straining hardness still trapped in Tom's sweatpants.
"Your turn," Brad murmured, his voice already regaining its strength, a low, husky promise. "Let me take care of you."
Tom’s breath hitched, but he didn't pull away. He simply watched, his green eyes dark and heavy-lidded, as Brad shifted beside him. There was no hesitation in Brad's movements, only a confident, deliberate grace. He leaned in, capturing Tom's lips in a kiss that was different from the others, deeper, knowing, filled with a newfound authority. It was the kiss of a man who had just been completely undone and was now ready to return the favor.
Brad's hand, which had been resting over Tom's erection, began to move. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was a firm, possessive caress through the thick fabric, a slow, maddening stroke that made Tom's hips buck involuntarily. Brad broke the kiss, a wicked, knowing grin playing on his lips.
"These have to go," he whispered, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the sweatpants.
Tom lifted his hips, a silent, willing participant. Brad peeled the damp fabric down Tom's legs, his knuckles brushing against his skin, sending a trail of fire in their wake. He tossed the sweatpants aside, leaving Tom as bare and vulnerable as he had been moments before.
Brad didn't dive in. He took his time, his eyes roaming over Tom's body with an appreciative, hungry gaze that made Tom feel exposed and cherished all at once. He knelt between Tom's legs, mirroring the position Tom had been in, and for a moment, Tom thought he knew what was coming. But Brad had other ideas.
He leaned forward, but instead of taking Tom into his mouth, he began to kiss his way up Tom's inner thigh. His lips were soft, his tongue a warm, wet flick of sensation against the sensitive skin. He moved higher, his breath ghosting over Tom's balls, drawing a sharp, desperate gasp from Tom's lips. Tom's hands fisted in the quilts, his entire body a tightly wound string of anticipation.
Only then did Brad move to his ultimate goal. He didn't start with his mouth. He started with his fingers. He wrapped his hand around Tom's shaft, his grip firm and sure. He looked up, his blue eyes locking with Tom's, and held his gaze as he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was a slow, deliberate swirl around the head. Tom cried out, his back arching off the floor. It was too much and not enough. Brad smiled against him, clearly enjoying the power he now held. He began to work him with his hand and his mouth in tandem, a perfect, synchronized rhythm of strokes and suction, of lips and fingers. He used his free hand to caress Tom's stomach, his thighs, his balls, a constant, grounding touch that kept Tom from flying completely apart.
The pleasure was immense, a tidal wave building deep within him. Brad was relentless, yet intuitive, sensing when Tom was nearing the edge and easing back just enough to prolong the agony, before pushing him forward again. The room, the tree, the storm, it all faded away. There was only the heat of Brad's mouth, the strength of his hands, and the overwhelming, all-consuming love that was pouring from Tom's heart.
When the orgasm finally hit, it was blinding. It ripped through him with the force of a lightning strike, stealing his breath and his vision. He heard himself cry out Brad's name, a raw, primal shout of release as his body convulsed with wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure.
Brad stayed with him, gentling him through it, his mouth softening, his strokes becoming slower, more tender, until Tom was a spent, trembling mess on the quilts.
He collapsed back, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He felt Brad move, and then the warmth of his body was pressed against his side. An arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him close. Tom turned his head, burying his face in Brad's hair, inhaling the clean, warm scent of him.
He felt Brad press a soft, lingering kiss to his temple.
"Merry Christmas, Tom," Brad murmured softly into the quiet room.
A laugh, real and breathless, bubbled up from Tom's chest. He tightened his arm around Brad, holding him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had been washed away. "Merry Christmas, Brad."
If you enjoyed this story, consider visiting the author's website.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
