Reunited with Gabe
Tom Webster shut the hotel room door quietly behind him, the soft click echoing in the dim morning light. He leaned against it for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, trying to ground himself. Every step, every memory of last night pressed heavily against him—the warmth of Gabe’s body, the soft curve of his jaw, the mischievous brightness in his blue eyes.
Before he could even set down his bag, Trevor’s voice rang out from the other side of the room. “Dad! Where were you all night?”
Tom turned, forcing a calm, casual smile. Trevor stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, green eyes sharp and curious, the height and broad shoulders of a young man finally grown into his frame. He had the lean athleticism of someone who’d spent years on the soccer field, the faint freckles across his nose catching the early sunlight, and a jawline that mirrored Tom’s own in its angles and strength.
“I…went for a long walk,” Tom said, keeping his tone light, deliberate. “Just needed some air.”
Trevor raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but accepting it with a shrug. “Really? You didn’t tell me you were going out.”
“Sometimes you need time to think,” Tom replied, smoothing the front of his pale blue button-down shirt and adjusting the cuffs. His chinos were wrinkled from sleep, suede shoes still at his feet, black crew socks warm against the floor. He ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing against his neatly trimmed mustache, feeling the subtle heat lingering in his chest.
Trevor shook his head slightly, still curious but letting it go. “Okay…just don’t make a habit of disappearing on me.” He wandered back toward the bed to gather his backpack, a trace of a grin tugging at his lips.
Tom lingered a moment longer, watching the sunlight glint off Trevor’s tousled hair, the confidence in his posture, the easy grace of his long legs as he moved around the room. Despite the morning calm, his mind refused to leave the warmth of Gabe’s apartment, the faint scent still lingering in his memory, the casual strength of his body, the way his blonde hair had fallen across his forehead, the mischievous glint in those blue eyes.
By the time they left the hotel, Tom felt simultaneously grounded and restless, caught between the mundane world of family life and the intoxicating pull of last night. Trevor chatted quietly about breakfast plans, the campus tour, the friends he’d made, oblivious to the storm simmering behind his father’s calm exterior.
Driving back through the familiar streets of Long Island, Tom adjusted his chinos, feeling the fabric stretch at the knees, ran a hand along the suede of his shoes, and exhaled, trying to focus on the simple pleasures—his family, their home, their life.
Pulling into the driveway, the sprawling house rose before him, its manicured lawns and quiet streets a stark contrast to the intensity of his thoughts. Carol stood on the porch, soft blonde hair catching the light, smiling as they approached. Inside, the house smelled of breakfast—coffee, toast, and something sweet baking in the oven. Madeline, Caleb, and Lila appeared at the windows, their faces lighting up at the sight of him.
“Dad!” Madeline called, dark curls bouncing as she threw herself into his arms. Caleb, lanky and mischievous, shoved a piece of toast into his mouth and grinned, while little Lila ran to hug him tightly.
Tom hugged them back, feeling the familiar warmth of family, though every memory of Gabe’s touch, his laughter, the soft strength of his body, lingered like a secret fire beneath the surface.
Dinner was lively, with conversation bouncing around the table. Carol asked about Trevor’s impressions of UCLA, Madeline recounted a school project, Caleb bragged about a prank, and Lila proudly showed her drawing. Tom responded, smiled, laughed where appropriate—but his mind was half a continent away, imagining Gabe’s bright eyes, the curve of his jaw, the warmth of his presence.
“I’m glad Trevor had such a good time,” Carol said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Exciting, isn’t it? Seeing them start their own journeys?”
“Yeah,” Tom replied, voice calm but distant, thoughts tangled in desire. “It really is.”
After dinner, as he cleared the dishes, Tom lingered near the window, staring out at the quiet streets beyond, imagining Gabe moving through his loft, casual, relaxed, teasing, bright. A shiver ran through him, equal parts guilt and longing, and the thought that burned in his chest was clear: he needed to see Gabe again.
⸻
That evening, Tom stood in the upstairs bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The light above cast a soft glow across his face, illuminating the lines at the corners of his eyes—marks of twenty years of marriage, four children, and countless early mornings. His dark hair, still thick, swept neatly to the side, with a few strands silvering at the temples. The mustache was trimmed close, accentuating the strong line of his mouth.
His frame was still trim, athletic, the product of steady discipline. The open collar of his pale blue shirt revealed the coarse, dark chest hair that had always made him look a little older, a little more commanding. His broad shoulders filled the fabric easily, the sleeves rolled back just enough to expose strong forearms, lightly tanned from yard work and weekends outdoors. He studied himself—chinos pressed, suede shoes polished, black crew socks snug at the ankles. On the outside, he looked every bit the suburban husband and father.
But his eyes betrayed him. There was a hunger there, an unrest, a flicker of something he couldn’t ignore. He leaned closer to the mirror, running a hand slowly across his jaw, remembering the warmth of Gabe’s touch, the brightness in his blue eyes, the way his blonde hair had fallen across his forehead in the dim light of the loft.
Tom exhaled, steadying himself, and then picked up the phone. His hand trembled faintly as he dialed.
“Hello?” Gabe’s voice came through, low and warm, carrying an intimacy that made Tom’s chest tighten.
“Hey…it’s me,” Tom said quietly, glancing at the closed door to make sure Carol and the kids were still downstairs.
A beat of silence, then Gabe’s soft laugh. “I was hoping you’d call.”
From that night on, it became a ritual. Every evening after dinner, after the kids were in bed and Carol had retired with her books, Tom would retreat to the bathroom or step outside under the porch light, phone in hand. And every evening, Gabe’s voice would greet him—sometimes playful, sometimes thoughtful, but always magnetic.
They talked about everything. Music, books, the chaos of college life, the burdens of responsibility. Gabe teased him about his suburban habits, and Tom laughed more freely than he had in years. But beneath the words was a current, steady and undeniable, pulling them closer.
One night, Gabe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tom…I want to see you again. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Tom closed his eyes, heart racing. “I can’t either. But…” He glanced around the darkened yard, the familiar outlines of his world hemming him in. “It’s complicated.”
“Then make it simple,” Gabe urged, almost pleading now. “Come to me. Just for a night. Say you’re away on business. No one will know.”
Tom’s breath caught. The thought was dangerous, reckless—but thrilling. The idea of stepping back into Gabe’s loft, of hearing the crackle of vinyl, of feeling his warmth again…it consumed him.
That night, lying beside Carol in their king-sized bed, Tom stared at the ceiling, the sound of her even breathing beside him. He thought of Gabe’s blue eyes, the curve of his smile, the way he had whispered in the dark.
The next morning, Tom made up his mind. Over coffee at the kitchen table, he cleared his throat. “Carol, I may have to head into the city later this week. There’s…a client I need to meet. Might even be an overnight trip, depending on how things go.”
She looked up from pouring orange juice, expression mild, trusting. “Of course. Just let me know the dates. I’ll handle the kids.”
Tom nodded, heart thudding against his ribs. He had never lied to her so directly before. But already, in his mind, he saw the glow of Gabe’s loft, the curve of his body in the soft light, and he knew—he was going.
⸻
Tom stepped out of the terminal at LAX, the California sun spilling across the pavement, heat rising through the concrete. He tugged the strap of his carry-on tighter over his shoulder, his outfit deliberately casual—navy polo, clean-cut and fitted across his chest, dark jeans hugging his frame, white crew socks visible just above his sneakers. His hair, carefully combed before boarding, was now tousled slightly from the flight, giving him a younger, freer look than he usually allowed himself at home.
Then he saw him.
Gabe stood waiting by the sliding doors, scanning the crowd. His blonde hair caught the light like gold, cut just long enough to fall into his forehead. He wore a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, dark jeans that fit snugly, and worn-in sneakers. The hem of his jeans rode up just enough to reveal the soft white cotton of his socks, and for Tom, even that detail sent a rush of warmth through him.
Their eyes met, and the world around them seemed to drop away. Tom quickened his pace, his heart hammering in his chest. Gabe moved forward too, weaving through the stream of travelers until they collided in front of the baggage claim.
Neither spoke. Their mouths found each other’s in an urgent, hungry kiss—deep, unrestrained, the kind Tom hadn’t dared let himself imagine since their last meeting. Passersby turned, some staring, but Tom didn’t care. For that moment, all that existed was the taste of Gabe, the press of his lips, the heat sparking between them.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Gabe grinned, cheeks flushed. “God, I missed you.” He reached for the handle of Tom’s suitcase as if it belonged naturally in his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
The drive was a blur of city streets, palm trees whipping past, the Pacific scent in the air. Tom barely noticed, his eyes fixed on Gabe’s profile—the curve of his jaw, the light catching in his eyes.
When they reached Gabe’s apartment, Gabe pushed open the door and pulled Tom in behind him. Before Tom could even drop his bag, Gabe pressed him against the wall, kissing him again, slower this time, with a tenderness that made Tom’s chest ache.
Tom murmured against his lips, voice rough, almost broken: “I wish I could go home to you instead of my wife.”
Gabe froze for a moment, his eyes searching Tom’s, then kissed him again, fiercely, as if to say what words couldn’t.
They kicked off their sneakers at the entryway, the sound of rubber soles hitting the floor. Tom’s white socks brushed softly against Gabe’s as they padded into the living room. Gabe poured them each a glass of red wine, the clink of bottles and glasses filling the silence between breaths.
On the couch, they sat close, their knees almost touching. Their socked feet grazed under the coffee table, a subtle, electric contact that neither pulled away from. They stared at each other in the warm glow of the lamp—Tom’s dark, searching eyes against Gabe’s bright blue ones.
Neither spoke for a long time. They didn’t need to. The silence was filled with all the things they could not say, and the weight of what they both knew—they were already in too deep.
The soft hum of the city came through the window, mingling with the quiet thud of their socked feet brushing together beneath the table.
Tom set down his glass, his eyes never leaving Gabe’s. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down, lifting Gabe’s white-socked feet into his lap. Gabe gave a soft laugh at first, a little surprised, but then let himself sink back into the cushions, his body unwinding under Tom’s steady hands.
Tom’s fingers pressed gently over the cotton, tracing the contours of Gabe’s arches, the firm curve of his heels, the subtle stretch of fabric over his toes. The texture of the socks made the touch softer, more intimate—something domestic, almost tender.
Gabe closed his eyes, a low sigh escaping his lips. He hadn’t expected this—such careful attention, such quiet devotion. The warmth of Tom’s palms, even through the fabric, sent tingles racing up his legs. His breath deepened, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, his body surrendering to the simple pleasure of being cared for.
When he opened his eyes again, Tom was watching him intently, as though memorizing every flicker of his expression. Gabe’s cheeks flushed, his lips parted, and he whispered, half-dazed, “God, that feels incredible.”
For Tom, it wasn’t just about touch. It was about holding him, grounding him, proving with every slow rub and squeeze that he wanted him—not in fleeting secrecy, but wholly, with a tenderness that went beyond hunger.
Gabe let his head fall against the back of the couch, a smile curving his mouth as he breathed out, “Don’t stop.”
His fingers tightened around the cotton-covered arch, a soft groan escaping him. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” Tom whispered, his voice thick and low. “Just this.”
Gabe’s chest rose and fell with a shaky breath. “What else have you been dreaming about?”
Tom didn’t answer with words. He lowered his head, pressing his lips against the soft fabric covering Gabe’s instep. The kiss was warm, lingering, filled with a reverence that made Gabe’s throat go tight. He could feel the firm shape of Gabe’s foot, the subtle shift of bones and tendons beneath his mouth.
Slowly, Tom’s hands slid up, over the cuffs of Gabe’s dark jeans, tracing the hard muscle of his calves. He moved with a deliberate slowness that was maddening, a torturous, beautiful build of anticipation. His lips left the sock, tracing a path up Gabe’s shin, the denim rough against his cheek.
“Tom…” Gabe breathed out, his own hands coming up to card through Tom’s dark hair, mussing its careful style.
Tom looked up, his eyes dark pools of want. “I want to taste all of you.” His fingers found the button of Gabe’s jeans, popping it open with a quiet snick. The zipper came down with a hushed, gravelly zzzip.
He tugged, and Gabe lifted his hips, allowing Tom to pull the jeans down his legs. They joined the discarded sneakers on the floor. Now, Gabe was laid bare before him except for the plaid shirt, hanging open, and those stark white socks. His cock sprang free, fully erect, curving up toward his navel. It was thick and flushed a deep, ruddy pink, the prominent vein along the underside throbbing with a visible pulse. A single, glistening pearl of precum had already beaded at the slit.
Tom’s gaze was ravenous. He leaned forward, his own white socks brushing against Gabe’s as he settled between his legs. He didn’t go for the cock first. He lowered his head again, nuzzling the coarse blonde hair at the base, inhaling deeply. God, the smell of him. A clean, musky scent, uniquely Gabe, mixed with the faint, sweet hint of his body wash. It went straight to Tom’s head, intoxicating.
He licked a slow, broad stripe from the very bottom of his shaft all the way up to the tip, collecting that first taste of precum. It was salty, slightly bitter, utterly addictive. Mmmph. A low sound of appreciation rumbled in Tom’s chest.
“Fuck, Tom,” Gabe gasped, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.
Tom’s mouth closed over the head of Gabe’s dick, his tongue swirling around the sensitive corona. The taste flooded his senses—skin, salt, pure male essence. He took him deeper, his lips stretching around the girth, his jaw relaxing. The first few inches slid into the wet heat of his mouth with a soft, wet slurp.
Gabe’s head fell back against the couch cushion, a loud, broken moan tearing from his throat. “Yesss…Just like that.”
Tom began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was all tongue and suction, the kind of methodical, worshipful pace that came from years of longing. One hand gripped the base of Gabe’s cock, his thumb rubbing rhythmic circles over the throbbing vein, while the other slid underneath, cupping Gabe’s balls, rolling the heavy orbs in his palm with a possessive tenderness. The sounds were obscenely wet—slrk, slrk, slrk—as he worked his mouth up and down the length, each movement deliberate, each stroke an act of devotion.
He loved this—loved it more than he should, more than he’d ever loved anything with Carol. There was something primal, something intoxicating about the way Gabe tasted, the way his body responded to every lick, every suck. Tom had never been this obsessed with anyone, not even in the early days of his marriage. Gabe’s scent, his taste, the way his breath hitched when Tom took him deep—it was all-consuming.
Tom groaned around Gabe’s cock, the vibrations eliciting a sharp gasp from above. This was what he craved, what he’d been dreaming about for months. The way Gabe’s body surrendered to him, the way his voice cracked when he pleaded for more—it was everything. His wife had never made him feel this way, never made him ache with this kind of raw, unrelenting hunger.
He pulled off just enough to murmur against the slick head, his voice thick with need. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, licking a stripe back up the shaft. “How much I’ve wanted you.” And then he swallowed him down again, deeper this time, his throat opening to take in more of Gabe’s length, the wet, desperate sounds filling the room as he lost himself in the man who had become his everything.
He pulled off with a wet pop, saliva and precum stringing from his lips to the glistening head. “My turn,” Tom panted, his own need a painful ache in his jeans. “I need your mouth on me. Now.”
They shifted in a frantic, clumsy dance of limbs. Tom leaned back against the couch arm, and Gabe slid to the floor on his knees between Tom’s legs. Gabe’s hands were just as frantic, undoing Tom’s jeans, pulling them and his briefs down just enough to free his erection.
Tom’s cock was different—a little longer, perhaps, and straighter, with a pronounced, plum-dark head that was already slick with his own arousal. His balls were drawn up tight, a dense, hairy sac.
Gabe didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, his blonde hair falling into his eyes, and ran his nose along the length of Tom’s shaft, breathing him in. A richer, earthier scent. He flicked his tongue against the frenulum, a quick, teasing touch that made Tom’s entire body jolt.
“Gabe, please,” Tom begged, his voice ragged.
That was all the encouragement Gabe needed. He opened his mouth and took Tom in, swallowing him down with a hungry glrk that resonated through Tom’s bones. Gabe’s technique was less controlled, more frantic and eager, his tongue lavishing attention on the sensitive spot just under the head. The wet, hot suction was overwhelming. Tom could only fist his hands in Gabe’s hair, his hips giving small, aborted thrusts as he watched his dick disappear between those perfect, stretched lips.
The dual sensations were incredible. Tom could still taste Gabe on his own tongue, could still hear the wet sounds of his own mouth on Gabe’s cock, and now the feeling of Gabe’s expert mouth on him was pushing him toward the edge.
The climb up into Gabe’s lap was a slow, deliberate ascent. Tom’s hands guided his hips, a firm, possessive grip that sent a jolt of pure heat straight to Gabe’s already-throbbing cock. He settled astride him, the coarse, dark hair of Tom’s thighs scratching deliciously against the smooth skin of his own. Their bodies were a study in contrasts—Tom’s broad, hairy chest against Gabe’s lean, smooth torso; Tom’s tanned, weathered skin against Gabe’s pale, artist’s canvas.
“Look at you,” Tom breathed out, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Gabe’s core. His hands slid up Gabe’s sides, calloused thumbs tracing the subtle ridges of his ribs. “Fuck, Gabe. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
Gabe’s own cock, a hard, flushed line of need, pressed against the dense thatch of hair on Tom’s abdomen, leaving a slick, glistening trail of precum. He could feel the thick, insistent pressure of Tom’s dick nestled against the cleft of his ass, a hot, promising weight.
He leaned down, capturing Tom’s mouth again. This kiss was different—deeper, wetter, a messy tangle of tongues and shared breath. Slorch. The sound was obscene and perfect. Gabe could taste the remnants of his own cock on Tom’s tongue, that musky, salty flavor that was uniquely him, mixed with the dark, oaky notes of the wine. Their tongues slid and pushed against each other, a hot, wet wrestling match that made his head spin.
Tom’s hands came up to frame his face, his thumbs stroking the high planes of his cheeks as he devoured his mouth. Mmmph. Glrk. A soft, wet sound escaped Gabe’s throat as Tom’s tongue explored him with a frantic, possessive energy.
When they finally broke for air, a thin string of saliva connected their lips for a second before snapping. Tom’s eyes were dark, blown wide with desire. “I need to be inside you, Gabe. Now. I can’t fucking wait another second.”
Gabe just nodded, his own words stolen by the ache in his groin. He reached between them, his fingers wrapping around the solid, veined heat of Tom’s cock. It jumped in his hand, a thick, living thing, the plum-dark head slick and beading with more fluid. He guided it, positioning the blunt tip right at his entrance.
He took a breath, and then he sank down.
Fuuuuck. The stretched, burning fullness was exquisite. It was a slow, consuming invasion, a perfect, tight fit that forced a ragged groan from both of them. Schlllp. The wet, yielding sound of his body taking Tom in filled the quiet room. Gabe’s head fell back, a guttural “Unngh!” tearing from his throat as he seated himself fully, Tom’s hips pressed flush against his ass.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom gasped, his fingers digging into the flesh of Gabe’s hips. “Your ass is so fucking tight, Gabe. It’s like a hot, wet fist gripping my goddamn dick.”
Gabe began to move, a slow, rolling grind of his hips. Up, then down. Each descent was a deliberate, overwhelming plunge. Squelch. Slosh. The sounds were filthy, a symphony of their union. He braced his hands on Tom’s broad shoulders, his own muscles coiling and releasing with the rhythm.
Tom’s eyes were locked on him, watching the ecstasy play across his face. Then he leaned forward, his mouth finding Gabe’s chest. His lips were hot and demanding against Gabe’s smooth skin. He licked a broad stripe over one peaked nipple, the rough texture of his tongue making Gabe jolt and cry out.
“Tom!”
Then came the mustache. As Tom’s mouth closed around the tight nub of his nipple, sucking hard, the coarse, silky hairs of his mustache brushed against the hypersensitive skin. Aahh! It was an electric shock of sensation, a rough, scratchy contrast to the wet suction of his lips. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a full, abrasive caress that sent shivers racing across Gabe’s entire body, making his cock twitch and leak against Tom’s stomach.
“You like that, you fuckin’ dream,” Tom growled against his skin, his voice muffled by Gabe’s chest. He moved to the other nipple, repeating the torturous, wonderful assault—sucking, licking, the mustache rubbing and scratching. “I love the way your tits feel against my mouth. Love the way you taste.”
Gabe’s movements on his cock became more frantic, less controlled. The dual sensations were unraveling him. The deep, stretching fullness inside him and the abrasive, electric stimulation on his chest were a feedback loop of pleasure. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound of their bodies meeting, of Gabe’s ass cheeks impacting against Tom’s thighs, grew louder, faster.
“Yeah, ride me, Gabe. Fucking ride my dick just like that,” Tom commanded, his own hips meeting Gabe’s downward thrusts with powerful upward drives. “You take it so good. You were built for my fucking cock.”
Gabe could only moan in response, a continuous, breathy sound of pleasure-pain.
The world narrowed to the point where their bodies met. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic squelch of Tom’s cock plunging deep, the ragged symphony of their breathing—it was all Gabe could process. His hands scrambled for purchase on Tom’s sweat-slicked shoulders, his own body a live wire of sensation.
Tom’s hands slid from his hips, around to his ass, gripping the firm globes, spreading him wider. The change in angle was infinitesimal but devastating. The thick head of Tom’s cock dragged against a spot deep inside him that made white light explode behind his eyelids.
“Right there! Oh God, Tom, right there!” Gabe cried out, his voice a broken thing.
A feral grin spread across Tom’s face. He held him there, pressed down fully, and began a series of short, brutal thrusts, hammering that perfect spot with unerring accuracy. Pound. Pound. Pound. Each impact sent a seismic shock through Gabe’s entire system. His own cock, trapped and weeping between their stomachs, throbbed in time with the assault.
“You feel that?” Tom grunted, his own control fraying. “That’s me. All of me. I want you to remember this feeling every time you fuckin’ blink.”
He leaned forward again, capturing Gabe’s mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing his cries. The coarse hair of his chest rubbed against Gabe’s oversensitive nipples, the scratchy friction pushing him even closer to the edge. He was panting into Tom’s mouth, his body trembling, teetering on a precipice so high it made him dizzy.
Tom broke the kiss, his breath hot against Gabe’s ear. “I’m gonna come,” he rasped, the words a raw, guttural promise. “I’m gonna fill you up. And you’re gonna come all over my stomach while I do it. You understand me? Now, Gabe. Come for me right fucking now.”
The command, the possessive growl in his voice, was the final trigger. The coiled tension in Gabe’s gut snapped.
An orgasm tore through him, violent and absolute. It was a silent scream for a second, his mouth open wide, his body bowing back as every muscle locked and then released in a devastating wave. Thick, hot stripes of cum shot from his cock, painting Tom’s stomach and chest, the first jet hitting his chin. Unnh! Unnh! Uhhh! The pulses were endless, wracking his frame with involuntary shudders, his internal muscles clamping down on Tom’s cock in a viselike, rhythmic squeeze.
The intense, milking pressure was too much for Tom. He buried his face in Gabe’s neck with a choked, guttural roar. “FUCK!”
Gabe felt the hot, sudden flood deep inside him as Tom’s own release erupted. He could feel the pulsing throb of Tom’s cock, each jet a scalding claim that seemed to go on forever, filling the tight, clenching heat of his body. Tom’s arms wrapped around him, crushing him close, holding him immobile as he pumped his essence into him, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding together.
They collapsed together against the couch, a tangled, breathless heap of spent limbs. The only sounds were their ragged, shuddering attempts to draw air. Gabe could feel the frantic hammering of Tom’s heart against his own chest, a wild drumbeat slowly settling into a heavy, languid rhythm.
Tom’s cock, still semi-hard, slipped from him with a soft, wet sound, followed by a slow, warm trickle down his thigh. He didn’t care. He nuzzled into the crook of Tom’s neck, inhaling the scent of sex and sweat and him.
For a long time, neither spoke. Tom’s hand came up, his fingers gently carding through Gabe’s damp hair. The gentleness of the gesture after the animalistic frenzy made Gabe’s throat tighten.
“I meant what I said,” Tom murmured, his voice husky and low, his lips moving against Gabe’s temple. “I wish I was coming home to you. Every night.”
Gabe tilted his head up, meeting Tom’s weary, sated gaze. The love and the agony in those dark eyes were too much to bear. He didn’t have an answer. He just brought his lips to Tom’s again, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and forever and impossibility.
When they parted, Tom’s expression shifted, a dark, hungry glint returning to his eyes despite his exhaustion. His hand slid down from Gabe’s hair, over the sticky mess on his stomach. He gathered a fingerful of Gabe’s cooling release and brought it to his own lips, his tongue snaking out to clean it off without breaking eye contact.
“Still so perfect,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise.
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was both a question and a command.
