Chapter 1

"Hey," Jason Kent-Mirelli said, picking up the envelope, waving it at his husband, "babe, cream puff, we need to send back an answer about your literary fundraiser gala. Like, by Monday. Do you want to go?"

"Oh." Colby had just finished making coffee; his hand paused on the way to cinnamon cream. His fingers were long and elegant and expressive. The gold of his wedding ring caught and held the kitchen lights, here at home, along with Jason's heart. "I…suppose we should. Showing support."

Jason leaned a hip against the counter beside him. Watched Colby's face, those wide blue eyes. They were nearly the same height; he might win by an inch or so, but Colby had that Hollywood leading-man height too, taller than average. Jason at the moment felt his own breadth, though: action-hero muscles, shoulders, chest, next to Colby's slim strong grace.

He carefully didn't push. Not getting into his husband's space. Colby probably wouldn't mind—comfortable, these days, with Jason, and they were looking at each other, so no sudden movement would be a surprise—but the phrasing, the hesitation, had said a lot.

He said, "I know you know, so I'm just saying it out loud, you didn't technically answer, there. About what you want. You don't have to, but I'd like to know."

"Oh, I know. I'm thinking. Bring that invitation, if you would?" Colby put a hand on Jason's arm, which was a message itself, warm as cinnamon coffee. "Come sit down with me?"

"Of course." Jason collected the invitation—fancy, embossed, gilt-edged, expectant—and four rainbow-striped lemon-sugar cookies in case his husband needed sugar, and followed. The evening, late-summer velvet in shades of blue and indigo and California palm trees, exhaled. Beyond the open windows of the living room, their pool shimmered; along the hill, in the rolling neighborhoods and valleys, lights glittered, coming on. Further beyond that, the ocean unfolded in a deep wine-dark horizon.

Their home, their house, held all those soft sparkles too. Little glints of light: fantasy novels and steampunk lamps, the prettiest of Jason's dice collection on display alongside Colby's priceless copy of Burton Douglas's memoir, signed, a gift from a friend. Oversized furniture and cozy rich colors, blues and bronzes and brass buttons on couch-arms. The life they'd built together, here.

Their wedding photo, the large one with all the laughter, made Jason smile every time. Himself and Colby Kent. Such a fairytale, every day.

He sat down next to Colby on their usual couch. The couch, used to Jason's bulk, stepped up willingly.

Jason held out an arm, a hope; Colby promptly flowed over into being cuddled, right up against him, so that was good, that was promising, that meant whatever reactions lay under the surface were more thistles than daggers.

The day had been fun, but long. Himself and Colby running lines, practicing, that morning. Meetings over at Raven Studios. Production discussions about wardrobe and a couple of action sequences. That first table read.

The project in question was the sequel to their massively popular mystery film of a couple years ago, which hadn't been intended to have a sequel, but everyone'd loved it. Colby had in fact had an idea for more, and had promptly written yet another genius screenplay late at night and between press events and producing a Shakespearean adaptation. Jason thought this sequel might be even better, funnier and even more clever, and he'd think so even if his husband wasn't responsible for it. He'd said so.

The cast was fabulous, a dream assembly, a huge ensemble, friends like Leo Whyte and Finn Ransom, and newcomers like Dylan Li, who knew Finn and who'd had such fantastic chemistry with everyone on set. Colby liked everyone involved, Jason knew, in the way that Colby always wistfully liked people. Chattering, avoiding touch but talking away, building shields out of words and nerves and kindness. The table read had gone well. Of course it had.

That did not mean large groups, in over-full meeting rooms, would ever be easy. That did not mean Colby felt able to relax, behind the shields and deflection.

Jason brushed fingers against the nape of his husband's neck, under chocolate waves of hair. Colby smiled, so he let his hand stay there, more weight, a presence.

"I'm okay." Colby said it with a tiny smile, for an instant more American in phrasing and tone. "Just a bit tired. A lot of people. And I feel somewhat guilty about not having dinner with Jill and Andy, after…"

"Everybody understands." He rubbed his thumb along Colby's neck, slowly. In charge, assertive, but soothing. "No one expected you to. Maybe tomorrow, or Friday. We're all in town for a while, so no rush."

That was something he hadn't understood before meeting Colby Kent. No one had, not well enough. Colby was a damn good actor, and wanted to please people, and genuinely liked seeing everyone happy; he smiled through every press conference, every interview, and balanced on tightropes over razor-wires, behind the persona of the whole world's most charmingly flustered cookie-baking gay best friend.

Some of the razors were extremely specific, only a few years old, laced with memories of bruises and unwanted touch and an ex's hands. Some of the rest had to do with very real social anxiety, properly diagnosed now and discussed with their therapist. Some of it was just that Colby honestly was an introvert who'd rather be at home in a book-nest of steampunk romance novels than attending any industry event or party or meeting. Jason adored him and was in awe of him and would leap in front of any peril for him. Or would take him home, and hold him, and feed him lemon sugar, plus maybe some brown-butter-and-sage tortellini in a few minutes: the Mirelli family recipe, indulgent but worth it after the day.

Colby cradled the coffee in both hands, had a sip, looked up. He was still mostly dressed—they both were, aside from having kicked off shoes at the door—and today's cardigan hugged his slimness in deep teal, neatly buttoned over a lighter blue shirt. He'd pushed up the sleeves after getting home, not before. "I said somewhat guilty. I'm working on that. I like being home with you. About that invitation…when is it, again?"

"October. Early. Will we be filming?"

"Not yet. And we really ought to go…I do want to. I've been such a supporter for years; I was there for the Foundation's establishment. One of the first things I did, when I realized how much money I, er, had." Colby did a tiny nose-scrunch into the coffee-cup, added, "I gave them quite a lot of it…"

"Yep. So you don't need to do more." He knew Colby had been working with that youth literacy and library foundation, back in London, for at least a decade. Colby Kent had grown up with books as friends, and wanted everyone to share those friends, too.

"Yes, well…the point of a fundraiser gala is to have some big names, you know, that people can pay to meet…myself, for one…"

"Yeah, but you'll hate it."

"Oh, no, not entirely." Colby shrugged without moving much, leaning into Jason's petting of him. "I've done it before, when I can. I do love discussing books, and I know most of the Foundation directors, you know, Lakshmi and Violet and Daniel and Birdie…"

Jason, having been Colby's other half for several years now, knew perfectly well that Birdie's real name was Neville, and he was a younger son of the present Earl of Windes. In some ways Colby was very much a child of the British upper class.

But then again, in some ways, decidedly not. The Foundation directors came from eclectic backgrounds, teachers and social workers and librarians and writers and Colby himself, and, yes, one or two people with old money and connections, because that helped set wheels in motion.

"So they're not strangers," Colby said, "and they're willing to put up with me. Being, er, eccentric. And you'll be with me. And it'll be at that lovely museum and library. It's not about the gala as such, or mainly not. It's more, you see, I know who else they're inviting, to be part of the celebrity draw, this year."

"Someone you don't want to see?" Someone who might require his, Jason's, personal martial-arts-related attention? Or just playing human fortress, all stone walls and portcullis defenses assembled? "Who?"

"Oh, your face, love." Colby balanced coffee in a hand, dove in, left a kiss on Jason's mouth like the favor of a shooting star. "Nothing like that. I just don't particularly want to talk to him. But of course Lakshmi put that in her note as if it'd be encouragement, something she thought I'd like…well, she knows I read romance, and Simon's a big name, of course, and she wouldn't know I don't…"

"Hang on. Simon Ashley? Like…the bestselling romance novelist, with that TV series on the way—"

"Indeed."

"—that film adaptation of A Duke for Christmas a couple years back—"

"That'd be Simon."

"—the one in the news, a while back, because he'd been using a female pen name but somebody figured it out, and he turned out to be a duke's son, but, like, disowned or something?"

"I didn't realize," Colby said, amused, "that you followed romance novelist news so closely."

"Allie's a fan. I mean, not like she is with you—" His younger sister had, once upon a time, more or less helped run the Colby Kent online fandom. Given the demands of law school, and the reality of Colby as her brother-in-law, she'd mostly stepped back. She did sometimes still share tidbits and photos, with Colby's knowledge and permission. "But she's read pretty much all his books, I think. So did Nonna. Which is not something I needed to know about my grandmother. So I heard about it all. That was a few years ago, though."

"He's publishing under his own name now. And more popular than ever. I've read one or two. They're actually quite good. Surprisingly so."

"Surprising?"

"Oh, drat," Colby said into cinnamon cream, "did I say that out loud?"

"What do you know about him?" This time Jason tapped fingers against the back of his husband's neck, not hard, but reinforcing the question. "Not a good person? He do something to you?" He'd actually wondered once, not with any weight, why Colby wasn't a bigger Simon Ashley fan; Colby loved books and romance and history, and those novels seemed like the sort that'd be on a Colby Kent bookshelf. One or two were, but only one or two. Hadn't been a significant question, at the time. Now it was.

"No…"

"Babe."

"No. Not as such. It's…a bit ridiculous, in fact. So long ago."

Jason looked at Colby's expression, touched the coffee-mug, said, "Can I take this?" and took it and set it down when Colby nodded. He put a hand out, after: cupping Colby's face, holding his husband in place, comfort but also extremely gentle command. "Tell me?"

"I do remember Simon," Colby said. "We met at a few events, when we were younger. We didn't have much in common, though, I'm afraid." That statement, considering the source, was the equivalent of shouting utter loathing from the rooftops. Jason felt his eyebrows fly up.

"Want to tell me why you don't like him?"

"I don't dislike him." Colby shut both eyes, opened them: reacting, not hiding. "I haven't even seen him for…at least twelve years? Fifteen? Some obligatory diplomatic reception of my father's, I think it must've been, that last time. We're both very different people now, I expect."

"I do want to know," Jason reinforced. "Explain it to me." Colby didn't simply dislike many people, in fact no one that Jason could think of, at least not in this ruffled-feathers kind of way: not serious, not wounded or hurting, but prickly as a kitten rubbed the wrong direction. He was starting to wonder whether he should be worried. "Do I need to punch him someplace painful?"

"No…"

"But you'd kind of like it if I did?"

"No! Er…well…no, it's not like that. We didn't not get on." Colby abruptly sounded extra-English, and wryly upper-class. "We were both fairly young, very definitely gay, and extremely unhappy with our respective parents. It's just…Simon was the sort of person who'd always want to break into someone's drinks cabinet, throw a party, and seduce every straight boy in a five-mile radius by the end of the night, usually in someone else's bed, with glitter."

Jason said, "Ah."

"And, you see, I was a terribly shy introvert who liked fantasy novels and rainbow unicorn stickers."

"So…not that much different from you now?"

Colby's mouth quirked. "Yes. Essentially. So he thought I was awfully boring, and I spent a lot of time being horrified, even though really I suppose we ought to've understood each other. His father—who happens to be a literal duke, and imagine being a duke, these days—oh, his father's honestly horrid. The sort of horrid that threw Simon out of the house for being…not simply gay, but flamboyantly dramatically gay, not tastefully discreetly so, you see."

"Fuck him, then. His father, I mean."

"Yes, quite. Only not literally, because certainly not, thank you."

Jason snorted.

"And you'd think I'd've been sympathetic, and I was, really, it's just it was hard to remember that when he—Simon, not his father—kept telling me how utterly dull and useless I was for preferring books and quiet, as opposed to the oh-so-marvelous joys of finding the nearest underground rave and consuming some sort of illegal sparkly substance and getting on both knees for the first willing man."

Colby was almost never, possibly literally never before now, anywhere near the neighborhood of that sort of sarcasm. Jason blinked, and adjusted expectations. "Um. Wow. Okay."

Colby sighed, though it was more of a groan, and collapsed back into Jason's lap, head on Jason's thigh, eyes shut again for a second. "I'm so sorry. That was awful of me, wasn't it? I'm not usually that…that…"

"Spiky?"

"Absolutely mean-spirited. Bitchy. You can say it."

"Wasn't going to."

"I was, though. Oh, God. Sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Sounds like you kinda did. If he was making you feel dull and useless." Jason was moderately concerned, now. And entertained. He'd never heard Colby be acerbic about anyone before, and apparently that emerged in verbose and descriptive and vicious elegance.

Colby clearly felt bad about it, though. Jason ran a hand through his husband's hair, through dark brown silky waves; paused to rub Colby's temple. "We don't have to go to the gala. You don't have to see him."

"Now I feel guilty, so we have to." Colby tipped his head into the massage, burrowing closer. "That really was dreadful of me. I like being nice to people."

"I know."

"Stop being reasonable about it."

"Nope, sorry. Love you."

"Oh, honestly…just admit I was being terrible. I was. I know it."

"You said he used to make fun of you."

"Yes, well, I was terribly boring, and far better with books than with people." Colby sighed. "And I envied him, a bit. Someone who knew what people thought of him, and then decided he just didn't give a damn, and he'd do what he wanted and who he wanted, and he'd take pleasure where he wanted…I could never be that reckless. My parents likely wouldn't've even noticed, mind you, as long as I didn't actively inconvenience them. But my head just couldn't think that way. I wanted to be good. Simon didn't care, and that was…I wished I could do that, sometimes. Only not really. If that makes any sense at all. And I love you, so much, of course."

Jason played with his hair: looping cocoa strands around fingers, feeling the slide and the softness. "Yeah, I think I got it. Like you and the sex on a hotel balcony fantasies." Something Colby didn't exactly want, in reality—in public—but the idea of it, being that free, for once not aching with anxiety about being good enough, simply letting it all go…

He touched Colby's mouth, a kiss of fingertip. "You're not boring. You make cinnamon-pear French toast and you do calligraphy and you can come up with stories about dragon magician librarians on the spot. Plus, you know. Award-winning screenwriter and actor and all."

"That might make it worse. Living in fantasies, still…"

"No. It's all real." He pressed the fingertip harder against Colby's mouth, until those pretty lips softened and parted. "You're wonderful, and you make people happy every day, with every story. And you're all mine, and I'm totally fine with punching a duke's son in the face if he tries to make you feel not good enough, got it?"

Colby nodded, wide-eyed. His breathing had quickened.

"Do you want me to show you how good you are?" He had the other hand in Colby's hair, and Colby's head on his thigh, still: he kept petting the hair, being tender, even while his finger pressed into Colby's mouth, mimicked a thrust, slid back across pink lips, left a shining smudge. "And how absolutely fucking not bored I am? The way you look, the way you feel, the way you want me, us, like nothing else, ever…"

"Yes." Nearly a gasp, that answer; Jason grinned inwardly. Colby's arousal was obvious now, stiff and full beneath his pants; his hips shifted.

Jason knew that feeling. Because it was everyplace inside him too: excitement scampering up and down his bones, sheer crackling need making his dick throb in his jeans, and beneath it all the deep-rooted certainty of this and them and being exactly where they belonged.

He said, "So, fantasies…you know our mirror…and you know how much we both like you being mine…so, um, if I did take you to some sort of club—I mean our bedroom—you know, sex and kink and us getting up on stage, everyone seeing how you belong to me, how nice and sweet you are for me…"

"Oh God yes." Colby licked his lips. "Yes. That. I'll be so good for you, I'm yours, all yours, and you'll show everyone that I am."

"Mine," Jason agreed, and caught his wrists and tugged him up from the couch. "Come here—"

In their bedroom, surrounded by the sugared glow of steampunk lamplight, fantastical shapes echoed on the walls, tumbles of brass and bronze and books and the giant bed with swirling vine-curls in the headboard and the sheets with raindrop patterns because Colby missed English weather, Jason kissed his husband. With conviction.

Colby swayed a little when Jason pulled back. His eyes held that familiar soft haze of bliss, the first lift and pull of deep euphoric submissive tides; but he said, "So would you like me on my knees, in this club, on stage with you?" because Colby even on the brink of subspace would forever talk. "Or tied to this very convenient bed?"

Jason laughed. "Got an idea. But you should be naked. Like my good boy should be."

Colby's mouth shaped the oh my, but no sound emerged; he outright quivered in response, clearly wanting, needing.

"Stop me if you want." He met Colby's gaze, out of character for a minute. "You remember all that." They did have safewords and check-ins. They'd used the words, once or twice. It helped, Jason knew: not just the fact of consent and a system for it, but the knowledge that, when Colby had said something, Jason—unlike some uglier memories in Colby's past—had listened instantly.

Of course he had. Not even a question. And he was glad Colby felt safe enough to speak up. With him, Jason: and the pride of it, the secret grateful awe that he'd been the person given this much of Colby, beat butterfly-wings in his chest for a second.

Colby nodded, and then, possibly in case the nod wasn't enough, reinforced, "Yes, Jason." His eyes were so very blue. "For us both. But it's very, very good right now. All sorts of green. Lime. Pear. Apple. Oh—that sounds like an intriguing sort of pie, and there could be cinnamon, because I feel like cinnamon, I mean that as a joke about spice, obviously…"

"God, I love you."

"And pie?"

"And pie." And Jason needed to do something, to do something for his husband. Right now.

So he flicked open the buttons of that neat and tidy cardigan. Opening it up. Colby actually whimpered aloud.

Jason grinned, said, "Be good," and peeled away sweater and shirt and Colby's pants and underwear too, revealing every inch: slender swimmer's muscles, firm thighs, the freckle at Colby's collarbone, the other at the crease of his hip. So many details. So beautiful. Jason had memorized every line, shape, sensation of him, and every time wanted to discover him all over. Anew.

Colby's cock, not as thick as Jason's but long and lovely, with a nice curve, stood up from its nest of dark curls. Rock-hard, wet-tipped, it begged for relief. Colby shivered but didn't touch himself, waiting.

"So good," Jason told him. "All mine. This…" He ran a hand over Colby's chest. "And this." The hip-freckle, his fingers pressing in, not enough for a bruise. "And this." This time he did touch Colby's stiff cock, but lightly. A tease; an assertion. Making the point.

"Yes." Colby sounded desperate. "Yes, please, I'm yours, all of me. I love that. I love this. I love you. Please show everyone how much I'm yours."

"Yep. And I want you to look." He turned Colby toward the mirror. Kept his other hand where it was, fondling Colby's cock. Heard Colby's gasp.

Jason felt the same. Seeing it, seeing them: himself fully dressed, jeans and a plain blue shirt, casual and powerful, hand on Colby's dick like a leash, while Colby trembled naked and vulnerable and dripping with want, visibly craving him.

He murmured again, "Look at us. That's an order, baby. Look at how much you need this. So easy for me, aren't you? So ready. Begging for it. But only for me. No one else. Mine."

Colby moaned softly. His legs shook; he kept looking, though. As ordered. His lips parted, dreamy and wet. His eyes were dreamy too, blue drenched in surrender. "Yes…yours…oh, yes…"

"And you're so happy, aren't you? Like this." He stroked Colby's dick, rubbed his thumb over the slit, laid claim to the spreading slickness. "I love you."

"Love you. Oh, Jason…yes, please…oh, it's like the rain. Into oceans."

"Wet? No, wait, I know what you mean." He brushed hair back from Colby's ear, breathed into the curve, "Pieces coming home."

"Dissolving," Colby whispered. "So good, so much, so infinite…"

"Show me how good you feel," Jason said. "Show everyone. Get on your knees."

Colby slid to the floor, less coordinated and more instinctive response, but he did end up kneeling, poised there on the plush night-blue rug, at Jason's feet. Hands behind his back.

Jason opened his own jeans. Drew himself out, large and dark and heavy. He was so hard he felt lightheaded; sensation quivered and gathered. He took himself in hand. Gave the length a stroke or two, above Colby's upturned face. "You love being mine, don't you?"

"Yes," Colby breathed.

"And you love it when I get to decide what you get, when you get to come." He did always let Colby come—and sometimes made him, multiple times, pulling it out of him—because Jason personally thought the best piece of the world was Colby coming apart from pleasure, lost in it, thoroughly given over to it, and trusting Jason with that. But he wasn't above making his husband wait. Colby liked some denial, and liked Jason exercising the dominance.

"Yes, Jason…" Colby sounded quieter, small and blissful and pretty damn far under, now, with that tone and the languor in his body, face, mouth. Drifting, floating.

"So sweet," Jason told him, and put a hand in Colby's hair, tipping his head back; pushed his dick into Colby's open mouth, deep because he knew Colby could take it. "Keep watching, baby. While I remind everyone how much you're mine, and you'll take it, and you'll love it."

Colby's gaze slid toward the mirror, themselves, the imagined audience: himself on his knees, cock dripping and untouched, with Jason's hand in his hair and Jason's dick stretching those movie-star plush lips.

He shivered everyplace, a full-body yielding to decadent pleasure. His hips rocked, pushing against air.

"Perfect," Jason whispered, hand gentle in Colby's hair, a caress. His Colby needed that: it wasn't about sharpness or pain or implacability, not for the way they fit. Command and surrender, though; praise and affirmations, yes. Colby wanted to belong to someone, to be wanted, to be loved. Which was, yeah, perfect. Because Jason loved him.

He made Colby watch. He fucked Colby's pretty mouth, putting on a show: his length sliding in and out, slick and shiny. He nearly came, himself, at the sight and sensation combined. Colby tried to be very, very good: licking and sucking and caressing Jason's length, until Jason held his head in place and just took him, faster, rougher but not too rough, just making clear which of them was in charge. Colby shuddered with ripples of happiness, and grew more pliable, easy as candlewax, wholly in Jason's hands.

So good, so immense, so much, abruptly: himself looking down, watching Colby watch every motion. Himself buried so deep, to the hilt. Colby's mouth so messy and pink. Colby's long limbs all pliant with submission, the contrast with his flushed hot cock. Thundering release hammed along Jason's spine, up into his body, the base of his dick.

He pulled back. Clung to self-control.

Colby moaned, dazed, beautiful and filthy and glorious, swaying with desire and the loss of Jason's cock. His hands remained behind his back. So well-behaved.

"Almost." Jason couldn't make it last; he knew he couldn't. "But that's not everything you want, is it, baby? You want me to fuck you, to claim you, right here on this stage? To show everyone? Tell me yes or no. That one's an order, too," he added, in case Colby needed the reinforcement. "Answer me."

"Yes," Colby pleaded, words tumbling and blurring with bliss. "Yes, yes…please, sir, fuck me…I need it, Jason, I need you…in me, filling me…dripping out of me…like the rain, like honey, like the sugar…oceans, I said…please, please, show everyone, take me, fuck me like this, please…"

"Jesus," Jason said inadvertently. He knew his husband had an occasionally startlingly descriptive mouth, but Colby hardly ever swore; famous for it, in fact. That'd been twice. Plus the sugared oceans, splendid near-incoherence, though not wordlessness, because this was Colby.

This was Colby, who needed to be fucked by Jason, right now. Jason's entire body agreed. Resonant with it, a drum-beat.

He told Colby to get on the bed, on both knees, and wait. He flung his clothes someplace. Grabbed the nearest lube, which was a good one but getting low. It'd be enough.

He came to join his husband, who was kneeling obediently but leaned heavily into Jason's gathering arm. Colby's head tipped against Jason's chest; Jason steadied him. "Still okay, sweetheart?"

Colby nodded. Nuzzled Jason's collarbone, uncoordinated. Whispered, "I feel like the drops of honey."

"In the ocean. Sweet, salt, dissolving, got it." He eased Colby's legs further apart, found that tight furl of invitation, pink and pretty here too. He wouldn't hurt Colby, though he knew they both were desperate; he opened Colby up tenderly, fingers and lube and stretching, made easier because Colby was so soft and malleable and needy just now, abandoned to sensation and the security of Jason's orders.

He knelt behind Colby, holding him up. He whispered, "Watch," and slipped his hand away and pushed the head of his cock against Colby's body, and slid home.

Colby cried out quietly, a tiny wondering crack of sound; he watched, mesmerized, the motions in the mirror, Jason's arms and strength around him, keeping him up; Jason lifting him slightly, repositioning, and pulling him down; Jason's dick sliding into him.

"So good," Jason breathed against his ear, "for me, like this…and everyone else, watching…they can see how good you are, how good you feel, how much you love this…me fucking you, baby, my cock inside you, because you're mine, my Colby, always, all mine."

Colby's moan was hungry and instinctive; he hadn't stopped watching. Jason told him, "I'm going to make you come now, because that's mine too, all of you, because I want you, Colby, because I love you," and finally put a hand on his poor neglected cock, a firm grip, motion. Colby's entire body jerked in response, tightening around Jason's length inside him.

Jason managed, "I want you to come, baby, come all over yourself, from me fucking you and my hands on you," and Colby sobbed Jason's name and did, just like that, velvet-hot spurts splashing upward, all over himself, while he spasmed and shook and whimpered.

Jason couldn't wait, couldn't hold back, at that. Thrusting. Hard. And coming: his own release flooding up and out and into Colby, the thunder back and pounding in his ears.

He clung to Colby. He whispered, "Feel it, baby, feel me inside you…filling you up, the way you like it, so full of me…" and Colby moaned and twitched and stirred against him, muscles rippling, clenching and easing, a small second electric spasm or a continuation of the first, prolonged by Jason's voice and Jason's release into him.

"Mine," Jason told him, and held him, and kissed him, and soothed him, with such love, until the trembling aftershocks dwindled, until Colby was limp and sweet and wrung out, collapsed into Jason's strength.

He eased out, tenderly, and settled Colby down into the bed, even more tenderly, and did a little bit of clean-up, leaving some traces of himself for Colby to feel and see, in a minute.

He got Colby to sit up more, being cuddled; he got Colby to drink some water, small sips, head resting against Jason's shoulder. He petted Colby's hair.

He told Colby he was beautiful, perfect, wonderful. Everything Jason could ever want, and more. He rubbed Colby's arm, back, hip; he found an individual freckle or two and connected them like stars in a constellation.

He kissed the top of Colby's head, tasting dark hair like chocolate silk, a little sweat-damp.

Colby blinked against his chest; Jason felt the sweep of eyelashes. He breathed, "Shh, you can rest."

"I'm awake." Colby blinked again, shifted to look up at him. "That…oh, Jason. Oh, my."

"Good?"

"We're doing that one again sometime. You…oh, yes." Colby glanced over at the mirror, now reflecting naked cuddles in the expanse of raindrop sheets. He pulled up one leg, ran his fingers along his thigh. "You wanted me still sticky with you…"

"You like it."

"I do." Colby sparkled at him. "So much. Feeling you, seeing you…I told you once I like seeing you dripping out of me. I do. I feel so…oh, deliciously wanted. Claimed. Taken. Oh, good heavens, everything's all twinkly…" He held out a hand, turned it over, laughed. "Like little stars. Under my skin. So bright. Crystals. Salt. Oh, did I talk about the ocean? I'm so glad you don't mind that I talk."

"I love it," Jason said, wholeheartedly. "Honey and rain and oceans. I love knowing you feel so good you just…spill over with it."

"I feel as if I did. Spill all over, I mean." Colby's smile was magnificent. "And I feel as if I could bake a dozen sea-salt and caramel miniature cakes—or pie? I think I said pie, earlier—and get up and sing karaoke, and kiss you everywhere, all over…I can do anything, just now."

"I'll help with the cakes. Or pies. In a minute, no rush. Want some trail mix? Cinnamon cranberry."

"Probably a good idea, thank you…" Colby waited while Jason lunged for the nightstand and the collection of aftercare options. After a bite or two, in the circle of Jason's arm, he said, "…or go to a gala with someone I don't want to see," as if that was the next logical item in the sequence. The lamplight painted his hair with topaz. The lamp, rocket-shaped—an old-fashioned rocket, a Jules Verne invention, made of grace and slim fins and smoky glass—obligingly gave him a halo.

Jason took a breath, held a dried cranberry up to Colby's mouth, sorted out an answer. "I know you want to be there."

"I do, and I'll have you, and I think it'll be fine." Colby swallowed. The oceans of his eyes brimmed over with elation, lingering joy in his face, and seriousness in his expression. "I do want to. And I can. We'll leave if I start…not feeling well…around people, I mean in general, not only Simon. I promise I'll tell you. I always do."

Jason nodded. That was true; Colby did. That worked; they worked. Together.

Colby put a hand on Jason's chest. Right over his heart. "So I can do this. Something I want. Because I do." He paused. Gaze and hand steady. "And I want sea-salt and caramel in dessert form. And perhaps a shower. At least before baking. Since I'm a bit sticky. And I very much want you, always. With me." He paused again. "And in me. Very much so."

"Spilling out of you," Jason said. "All over. We can sing in the kitchen if you want—"

"Oh, good heavens, I did say karaoke, didn't I?"

"—we can do that right here, and." He cupped Colby's cheek, touched those expressive lips. "Also over there. London. In our flat. Since we're going to your gala."

"Everything I want," Colby declared, and kissed Jason's finger, "with you."