Rion, when he stood from his chair, was dressed in full suit. Lysander’s heart very nearly snapped in its yearning. He looked hot.

“Yakinos…” Rion gasped.

“A letter,” Lysander said. He thrust the letterhead into the air. Not as if it was going to stay there. Lysander didn’t care. The envelope poured to the floor, along with the last button of his shirt; hands were needed for a better activity.

As if to pay him back, Lysander lunged forward to Rion’s lapels. He scrunched one fist onto the stiff collar; the other palm he splayed against Rion’s cheek to direct his tongue. In it slithered, penetrating through the orifices and dips of Rion’s teeth.

Rion fought, but not for longer. Anger burned his eyes, his grabbing hands around cuffs.

“Hicky, what are you –?” But his moan swamped the words. Eyes enlarged, begged in that frantic way that Rion did when he could not keep his charm.

“No…” he murmured, but still reached in for another kiss, his life-blood. “Not here…”

Hadn't Lysander himself said the identical statement the previous week? But Rion quivered more than usual, and broke away with a force unlike his controlling passion. Furious eyes scanned the empty room. Rion had spotted the window – wide open – and peered through it, before his needy hands went for shutting it.

A whisper of a smile darkened Rion’s face. He crept forward and covered Lysander’s bare chest with the jacket he had shrugged off. Felt and smooth cotton brushed his sternum; the soft ripples of material tickled and caressed, as if their hands extended from Rion himself.

“Come on.” He grabbed him by the hand, and, all the time checking the corridors back and forth, pulled him along the wooden floor. How long were they going to wind uselessly?

Then Rion halted in a corridor full of unmarked, identical doors. He deployed the handle of the closest, before pushing the door inwards. Behind it sat his bedroom, glorious. A paradise.

Rion’s hands slipped from Lysander’s to the door, closing the block of wood; then, the hand found its way in again.

The jacket tumbled to the floor; already Rion tightened his reins. He hooked two thumbs under the shirt and flicked it off; the whole garment twitched as it tumbled inconsistently, fine paper.

Even as he was pulled along – somehow, one hand of Rion’s guided Lysander into his arms – each move filled with a cautionary sigh. So – this was Rion’s skittish reason for keeping Lysander from his home.

“Hmm,” said Lysander. He teased Rion with a lipped kiss away, before kneeling and unlacing his shoes. Heavy breathing rained down, and Lysander glossed his lips with a fresh glob of saliva; Rion might have been tempted, but he would have to wait.

Some men, they had no bloody patience.

Shoes off – and Rion had thrown away his own – the battle continued. Lysander lost himself in fingers and interlocking lips.

“I am guessing that you do not hate me, then,” Lysander whispered as he tackled the stiff buttons on Rion’s starched garment. He swayed, eyes closed.

“No, no!” cried Rion. He, too, had eyes shut, but his hands roamed below Lysander’s waist. He frowned, head bobbing in the typical wrath of awesome pain, when he groped at Lysander’s buttocks and fiddled blindly for his jean zipper.

“I’ve missed you.”

Lysander nearly ceased his hold. Rion never did sentiment. The reason he so enticed.

“And I,” muttered Lysander, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. A good two days had been spent carving Rion out of his mind, followed by that triumphant point of success – and the fall of delivering  the letter himself. This always happened. Rion would occupy a miniscule space in his mind, before the new appearance forced black-and-white delirium upon him.

He didn’t know quite how, for the delirium cloaked his mind, too, and Rion’s expression had lost to bewilderment also, but those stuffy, constrained trousers they had torn off each other. The draught that shouldn’t have existed curled around Lysander’s thighs. The flesh of the other man clung to his own, both bristling and warm, cruel and comforting.

“My, my, Hicky, darling,” Rion said in over-enunciated vocals. That curdling tone had returned, as had the grip on Lysander’s shoulder. Through the act of bare skin, Rion’s short thumbnail perforated, a pink blemish.

Nevertheless, Rion’s moves jerked; he could hardly call up criticism on Lysander’s thirst. The advantage meant that it was time. And now Lysander’s thrill was running blood downwards.

Lysander raised his eyebrows slowly. He said nothing – he had no need to. Blue eyes, coloured like rain, howled into his own. The searing image of his own sight scraped him. Raw, clean.

At least he wanted this.

Rion smirked. His rough hand caressed Lysander’s abs. He darted and snaked down, a cold trail echoing ice as warmth lapped from flower lips. No more. He knew this had to change, and Lysander was about to voice his concern, but the palpitations coursing through his body shook away the thoughts of imperiousness.

He pushed the chubby flat of his own palm across the uneven cheek, forcing through his own kissing type again. But, when Rion was in his element, their own shaking did not cease. Lysander trembled with his lover.

The twitch of a hand further down his body enticed. Rion’s slender fingers found the only fabric barrier leaving them from each other. Clouded breathing tore into his ears as Lysander tripped his own hands the same way.

The battle fought was one more furious tiff of limbs and hands and hearts, underwear falling quickly from them. Lysander didn’t care. He had done this before too many times to count.

He pressed his hands against Rion’s fight, his bare chest, until, finally, they stood, utterly naked, cheek against cheek.

“All right?” Rion murmured into his ear.

Lysander grinned, his nose inches from Rion’s. “Never better.”

Lysander lapped his lips once more over Rion’s, and pulled him towards the bed.


The End

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