Talker's Graduation Read Free

ribs. Even Tate felt the bump and slide of
    Brian‟s palms on each lump of bone under his flesh.
    “Tell you what,” Brian murmured, bending down to talk right in
    Tate‟s ear—the damaged one, which was sensitive to even the
    slightest whisper. “How about we go feed my thing, and once you
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
    11

    see I‟m all working, and we‟re alive, and it‟s all good, maybe you‟ll
    feel better about coming back here and feeding your thing.”
    Tate had been reluctant at first. But Brian—Brian was
    assertive. He wasn‟t aggressive or mean or frightening; he just set
    his quiet mind to it and then shouldered on through, moved solidly
    toward his goal, and his goal was getting Talker into the bedroom
    by whispering in his ear and cupping his face, kissing along his
    jawline, holding his hand. When they got there, he pulled Talker‟s
    shirt off, and because he‟d been home all day, the apartment didn‟t
    have that ache of cold that it used to when it was just the two of
    them gone all the time, so Talker didn‟t shiver. He shivered when
    Brian‟s big hands spanned his ribcage again though, yes he did,
    but that was a good kind of shiver. Brian kept up those kisses,
    those soft whispers of lips on skin, down Talker‟s throat, in the vee
    of his clavicles, down, down his skinny chest, his tattooed shoulder,
    down to the indent of his tummy. He spent a moment there, which
    was torture because the skin was soft, and Brian opened his mouth
    and pulled the taut, sensitized skin in, again and again, until it
    almost tickled, and Tate had to suppress a sound between a
    whimper and a giggle.
    Brian looked up, leaning on his good shoulder and keeping his
    injured one up and back. “Too skinny, baby,” he said soberly. “Give
    me more to kiss.” He went back then, and kept kissing down, down,
    fumbling with the button fly of Tate‟s jeans until Tate reached down
    and helped him.
    Brian pulled them off, and there was Tate, in what once had
    maybe been his greatest nightmare. He realized that the lights were
    still on, and he made a noise about it, but Brian paused, looking
    from the floor between Tate‟s legs, where he was taking off Tate‟s
    shoes.
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
    12

    “I want them on,” he said quietly. “You need to see me—
    what‟s damaged, what‟s not. You need to know I‟m okay. Once you
    know I‟m okay, you‟ll feel better. You can eat. You‟ll be okay too.”
    “But my….” But my scars! He didn‟t need to finish the
    sentence—they both knew. The entire right side of his body was
    covered in scars. He‟d tattooed over the ones on his arm, his
    shoulder, his neck, his face, but the parts of him that never saw the
    sun—God, he couldn‟t even look at himself. And it occurred to him
    then—suddenly, for real—that this is what Brian had been talking
    about. Brian knew about his scars, had felt them, had moved his
    mouth and his hands over them and loved them and loved Talker
    and was not disgusted or put off. And now Brian was making Tate
    do the same thing.
    Tate‟s shoes were off and Brian placed kisses up the inside of
    Tate‟s damaged leg. Tate moaned, pulled his feet up to the bed
    and spread his knees, then threw his arm over his eyes, because
    he was embarrassed and turned on and needy.
    Brian kept kissing. He skipped the creases—thank God,
    because Tate was still sweaty and sticky from work—but he did
    spend some time licking at the base of Tate‟s cock and then
    running his tongue up to the crown. There were scars on it—one of
    the many reason Tate wanted the lights off—but he‟d needed Brian
    for so long, had been hungry for this for so long, and had needed
    the reassurance that only physical touch could bring for oh so long,
    that for once, he didn‟t hide, or cover, or apologize. Brian‟s mouth
    covered his cock, slid down to the base, tightened, and then pulled
    up again. The ridges of Tate‟s damaged erection were