Mystery Chapter 9
We're closing in on the finish. One, two more chapters at most. I'm sorry this is taking so long, but I'm sometimes very slow. And this is one of those times. I don't want to rush and ruin what I have so far. Things are heating up. Jared's closing in on a murderer and on Jensen. :D Here we go.
Chapter 9
Beaver’s secretary, Julia McBride, eyes Jared with distaste. Probably because the last time she’d seen him there, he’d been hauling Jensen’s ass out in handcuff. Good times. Jared remembers the elevator kiss and hides a smirk, scratches at the back of his neck. He doesn’t hold it against her, but he wants her on his side, so he lets loose a deeply-dimpled smile, his secret weapon, and sees it land right between her eyes. She gives a blink followed by the softening of her glare.
“Mr. Beaver’s going over galleys.” The way she says it, it sounds like a holy sacrament that can’t be interrupted. Her painted nails smooth over the desk blotter. “You can make an appointment. For later.”
Jared shakes his head. “I’m here on police business, sweetheart, not for a friendly chat.”
Through the closed door, Jared can hear the sound of Beaver’s voice, a steady murmur, no particular inflection to indicate who he might be talking to.
“I’ll tell him you tried to stop me,” he calls over his shoulder as he closes his hand on the fancy knob and turns.
Jared opens the inner door before the secretary can get her feet under her and steps into an empty room. He hesitates in surprise, then strides across the plush carpet to the desk. There’s a tape recorder small enough to fit into the palm of a hand dead center on the polished surface. Jared cocks his head and listens as Beaver’s baritone rolls out in stops and starts, obviously making corrections to the copy he’s reading.
The hairs at the nape of Jared’s neck twitch in presentiment. He turns his head, eyes skimming the book-lined walls and finds himself hoping to see the twin of the clock in Jensen’s apartment. It isn’t there. Jared is vaguely disappointed, but then, nothing is easy in this case. He should have expected it. Presumably, Beaver has granddad at home. Jared wants to get a gander at that baby, see if it has the same secret compartment under the painted woodwork, a space big enough to hide a shotgun.
In lieu of the clock, Jared decides to make a quick search of the desk, but he’s too late. A door that looks like part of the woodwork near the row of uncovered windows opens, and Beaver walks out. His immaculate tie is a trifle askew. There are circles under his eyes. When he spots Jared, a sneer blossoms.
“Well look who’s here? Another raid, Detective? You’re not going to give me the third degree, are you? Because your harassment tactics won’t work.”
“No. If I wanted to do that, I’d haul your ass down to the precinct and shine bright lights in your eyes.”
Beaver stares steadily at Jared, his face impassive. “Then say your piece and get out. I’m a busy man.”
“Let’s talk about the night of the murder.”
Jared wants to start slowly. Work his way around to gifts in general and then the clock in particular. Not waiting for an invitation he knows isn’t coming, Jared sinks into one of the spindly armchairs in front of Beaver’s desk. He folds a leg across his knee and taps a finger on it.
“You and your secretary were working late?”
“That’s right.” Beaver gives in to the inevitable, seating himself at the desk, snapping off the tape recorder with a vicious jab. “I get more done after hours. Less interruptions.”
His lips press together. A forefinger runs back and forth across his neatly trimmed moustache. It’s a tell. Jared’s good at spotting those. He’s seen Beaver use this one before. It’s always when he’s nervous and defensive.
“So you were working. What on?”
“What on?”
The editor is stalling for time by repeating Jared’s question. Jared sees his eyes tick towards the door to the outer office, hoping for an interruption maybe, or wondering what Julia McBride had said about that night.
“I was correcting galleys. Like these.” A manicured hand gestures towards the tape recorder.
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Licking his lips, Beaver drops his eyes away from Jared before speaking. “It was Jensen’s new book. Due out the end of June.”
“You always use a tape recorder to do edits?”
Jared senses Beaver’s hesitation.
“For the fine tuning. I work off galley sheets on the first run-through. Then I record the revisions. It’s easier that way. I can take them with me. Work in the car on the way home or at odd moments when I’m free.”
“That night? You were here until when?”
“I’ve told you all this before, Detective. How many times do you need to hear it?”
“Until I close the cell door on a murderer.”
Beaver frowns, seeing the trap if he wasn’t forthcoming. “I left shortly after one thirty. Julia and I walked out together. I offered her a ride home, but she reminded me her car was back from the shop, so we parted ways.”
He stares at Jared challengingly, waiting for the next question. When it comes, he’s not prepared for it.
“You’re pretty fond of Ackles, aren’t you?”
A moment of silence fills the room up to the ceiling. Jared’s narrowed eyes search Beaver’s expression for what he’s sure is there. He sees it in the belligerent tip of a chin.
“I’m fond of all of my authors,” Beaver says smoothly.
The man is cool as ice, but Jared waits him out, staring impassively, knowing his non-response will force Beaver to clarify, unable to leave his last words out there naked between them.
“They bring money into the House,” he finally rasps, tone a little agitated at being forced to voice the postscript. There’s a wariness in Beaver’s eyes that wasn’t there before. “I don’t see what that has to do with the murder.”
“Do you give all you authors presents? Or is it just Jensen?”
Beaver’s spine stiffens. He sits up straighter, a small twitch of the lips telling Jared more than he’d hoped for. The man doesn’t like him calling Jensen by his first name, and he doesn’t like Jared knowing about the presents. Beaver shoots a defensive glare Jared’s way, his caution slipping as Jared prods him with sharpened questions, a picador jabbing the maddened bull.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re implying. There’s nothing improper about my relationship with Jensen. He and I have a special closeness. I’ve been his mentor and friend from the day he walked into my office. He relies on me. It’s only natural that on occasion I’ve given him several gifts to commemorate our bond.”
“That right? Only natural? Huh. Like what kind of gifts?”
“I don’t see how this is any of your business, Sargent.”
Jared squashes his smirk, noticing his demotion. He leans back in his seat, making himself more comfortable, lifts an eyebrow at Beaver’s pinched face. The man is no longer concealing his vivid animosity.
“Look. You can play nice here, or I can haul you downtown and make this a whole lot nastier. I don’t see what the problem is, Beaver. Are you embarrassed? You weren’t giving him silk underwear or bondage gear, were you? Or maybe you wanted to and thought he’d throw it back in your face.”
The scald of pink that rushes into Beaver’s cheek looks almost painful. “How dare you, you two-bit reject from a bad movie. I’m calling my lawyer. You can’t talk to me like that. I’m no pathetic junkie you’ve dragged in off the streets and can kick around for the fun of it.”
“Did you know Jeffrey Morgan was fucking Tom Welling?” Jared says conversationally. “And using Ackles penthouse for their assignations when he was out of town?”
Interrogation technics are Jared’s forte; the switch up, forcing emotion in place of calculated indifference, throwing the suspect off-balance with the unexpected. The one-two combination silences Beaver, the man left blinking, his mouth agape. He sinks back into the seat he’s risen from.
“No.” The low murmur is barely a whisper. “I didn’t.” He rubs a hand over his face, the dark rings under his eyes standing out more prominently. “Please. I need a drink.”
Crossing to a large, sun-burst mirror that hangs prominently between the bookshelves, Beaver presses a recessed button. The mirror swings out slowly, rotating and settling back in place to reveal a fully-stocked bar. With jerky movements, Beaver pours himself three fingers of expensive Scotch. Jared can read the label from where he sits. At the last minute, Beaver seems to remember himself.
“On duty?”
Before Jared can answer, Beaver jolts the liquor down his throat in one long, convulsive gulp.
“Uh. No thanks.”
It seems they’re back to being polite. Beaver refills his glass, the starch gone out of his posture.
“Some of those gifts were pretty expensive.” Jared begins again, not ready to lose his advantage.
“I’m a rich man. I can afford it.” Hooded eyes watched Jared warily, on to him now, leery for the next change of direction.
“Tell me about the grandfather clock. Where did you get it?”
This is Beaver’s chance to come clean, to tell Jared there isn’t one clock but two. Then Beaver can exclaim in shock when he hears about the shotgun. Jared’s not above dropping that little tidbit of information into his lap if it will shatter the last of Beaver’s reserve. He knows it’s a facade. His fingers are digging into the meat of the bastard. He feels the cracks spreading out, real emotion leaking through.
The murky depths of the man’s eyes shift. Jared almost wants to back off because what he’s thinking is so ugly, so twisted it’s giving him a belly ache. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and waits for Beaver’s reply.
“There’s nothing to tell. I found it at my favorite antique shop. The moment I looked at it, I knew it was meant for Jensen. You’ve seen the clock at the apartment?” At Jared’s nod, the man continues, a rapt expression settling over his face. “It’s beautiful and full of character. Just the way Jensen is. I had to have it. Those soft, deep greens and blues like the color of his eyes. The veneer silky under my fingertips when I touched it. He...it took my breath away.” The trance-like whisper of Beaver’s voice snaps at his mistake. He blinks, tone turning brusk. “The price was irrelevant. You can’t put a dollar sign on something so exquisite. So I bought it as a symbol of friendship.”
“Very moving.”
The last of the Scotch hits the back of Beaver’s throat. He coughs, a spasm of distaste feathering over his features, before his sets the glass down carefully, walking back to loom over Jared’s seated form.
“You sarcasm is duly noted. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the more delicate connection between people.”
Jared pushes up from his chair, stretching his six foot four frame to its full height. The revelation has sickened him, but he doesn’t let it show, careful to keep his expression a neutral mask. Beaver had the hots for Jensen, and Jensen walked out on him. Was in the process of slipping from under his thumb after being deluged with gifts and Beaver’s “special” kind of friendship. There have been more tenuous motives for murder.
++++++++++++++++
screencap by animotus
“It wasn’t like that. He’s an old man, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got a fucking dirty mind, Jared.”
Jensen flattens his palm against Jared chest and pushes hard enough to make him stagger back a few feet out of his space. But Jared won’t be denied on this one. He’s revved up and feeling murderous after having his suspicions confirmed. Knowing Jensen could have told him and didn’t.
Trapping the irate man between a potted plant and a table full of nicknacks that chatter angrily when he bangs it with his elbow, Jared presses Jensen into the wall. Pinning his wrists down, he mashes his nose against a stubbled cheek, breathing Jensen in, all spice and a lingering scent of Jared himself. He finds the squirming mouth that tries to evade him, kisses it hungrily and deep, unrelenting.
“He wants to fuck that pretty little ass of yours,” Jared accuses, lifting his mouth enough for Jensen to answer. Sharp serpent hisses of fury burn his lips.
“No. No fucking way. It wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The next kiss is sloppier, rougher. Letting go of Jensen’s wrists, Jared finds himself assaulted with punches. They glance off his shoulders and ears, pummel his sides.
“Bastard. Bastard,” Jensen pants.
There’s an ugly ripping sound. Jared’s looks down to see his shirt torn open, the hard, smooth lines of one pectoral exposed.
“Go on,” he says, grabbing Jensen’s hand and slamming it against his chest “Rip it up some more. Come on. I like it.”
He grabs Jensen hand, forcing him to grip the hanging material and pull. Buttons pop as the tear widens. A tightly puckered nipple is unveiled.
“You like the way I give cock. You want some more, don’t you, baby? All you have to do is ask.”
There’s no answer, only a primitive growl. Jensen is putting up a ferocious fight. Jared grabs him around the waist, ducking his head to avoid the flailing punches, and lifts Jensen off his feet.
Later, the lamplight illumination spills over their bodies, slick with sweat, turned golden in its glow. An erotic sculpture come to life, they move in slow motion, muscles bunching then relaxing, Jensen’s thigh slung across the bend of Jared’s elbow. The rounded curve of his spread cheeks part for the thick length of prick that eases in past his slack muscle. He flexes his hips, teeth biting a pattern of anguish into the swell of his plump mouth.
“Jared. I can’t take it any more.”
His head pushes back into the pillow. Jared swoops down, cock gone still, and licks softly over the pale cords of his throat.
“You hurtin’, lover? Tell me.”
“Oh Jesus.” Jensen’s thrashes weakly, mouth slack with need. “Have to let go. Can’t hold back any more.”
Jared’s cock slips farther inside, round, heavy balls nuzzling the sensitive silk below Jensen’s hole. He moves his hips in a slow circle, listening to Jensen moan in anguish, shadows of lashes fluttering on broad, Indian cheeks.
“It’s so good when you’re like this. All spread open. Your muscles loose for me. I could fuck you forever like this.”
Jensen lifts his head up, eyes bleary. His mouth opens and close like a baby bird seeking sustenance. Jared gives him tongue, fills his parted lips with it, tasting teeth and skin, the looping sweetness of Jensen eating him back. They suck and hover, time slowing to a crawl, until Jared presses his fingertips in beside his cock. Jensen stiffens when they run together across the swollen bundle of nerves that’s nearly numb with pleasure.
“Oh,” he moans, and it’s a sigh and a prayer all at once.
Jensen’s cum is warm velvet over Jared’s belly. He tightens his abdominal muscles, finishing the long, slow orgasm for him as Jensen lays pliant, lax fingers beside his head. Jared’s own cock opens and spills its release into the friction-hot rectum, the way a weakened dam might burst and overflow it’s banks.
They sleep and night closes in.
Chapter 9
Beaver’s secretary, Julia McBride, eyes Jared with distaste. Probably because the last time she’d seen him there, he’d been hauling Jensen’s ass out in handcuff. Good times. Jared remembers the elevator kiss and hides a smirk, scratches at the back of his neck. He doesn’t hold it against her, but he wants her on his side, so he lets loose a deeply-dimpled smile, his secret weapon, and sees it land right between her eyes. She gives a blink followed by the softening of her glare.
“Mr. Beaver’s going over galleys.” The way she says it, it sounds like a holy sacrament that can’t be interrupted. Her painted nails smooth over the desk blotter. “You can make an appointment. For later.”
Jared shakes his head. “I’m here on police business, sweetheart, not for a friendly chat.”
Through the closed door, Jared can hear the sound of Beaver’s voice, a steady murmur, no particular inflection to indicate who he might be talking to.
“I’ll tell him you tried to stop me,” he calls over his shoulder as he closes his hand on the fancy knob and turns.
Jared opens the inner door before the secretary can get her feet under her and steps into an empty room. He hesitates in surprise, then strides across the plush carpet to the desk. There’s a tape recorder small enough to fit into the palm of a hand dead center on the polished surface. Jared cocks his head and listens as Beaver’s baritone rolls out in stops and starts, obviously making corrections to the copy he’s reading.
The hairs at the nape of Jared’s neck twitch in presentiment. He turns his head, eyes skimming the book-lined walls and finds himself hoping to see the twin of the clock in Jensen’s apartment. It isn’t there. Jared is vaguely disappointed, but then, nothing is easy in this case. He should have expected it. Presumably, Beaver has granddad at home. Jared wants to get a gander at that baby, see if it has the same secret compartment under the painted woodwork, a space big enough to hide a shotgun.
In lieu of the clock, Jared decides to make a quick search of the desk, but he’s too late. A door that looks like part of the woodwork near the row of uncovered windows opens, and Beaver walks out. His immaculate tie is a trifle askew. There are circles under his eyes. When he spots Jared, a sneer blossoms.
“Well look who’s here? Another raid, Detective? You’re not going to give me the third degree, are you? Because your harassment tactics won’t work.”
“No. If I wanted to do that, I’d haul your ass down to the precinct and shine bright lights in your eyes.”
Beaver stares steadily at Jared, his face impassive. “Then say your piece and get out. I’m a busy man.”
“Let’s talk about the night of the murder.”
Jared wants to start slowly. Work his way around to gifts in general and then the clock in particular. Not waiting for an invitation he knows isn’t coming, Jared sinks into one of the spindly armchairs in front of Beaver’s desk. He folds a leg across his knee and taps a finger on it.
“You and your secretary were working late?”
“That’s right.” Beaver gives in to the inevitable, seating himself at the desk, snapping off the tape recorder with a vicious jab. “I get more done after hours. Less interruptions.”
His lips press together. A forefinger runs back and forth across his neatly trimmed moustache. It’s a tell. Jared’s good at spotting those. He’s seen Beaver use this one before. It’s always when he’s nervous and defensive.
“So you were working. What on?”
“What on?”
The editor is stalling for time by repeating Jared’s question. Jared sees his eyes tick towards the door to the outer office, hoping for an interruption maybe, or wondering what Julia McBride had said about that night.
“I was correcting galleys. Like these.” A manicured hand gestures towards the tape recorder.
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Licking his lips, Beaver drops his eyes away from Jared before speaking. “It was Jensen’s new book. Due out the end of June.”
“You always use a tape recorder to do edits?”
Jared senses Beaver’s hesitation.
“For the fine tuning. I work off galley sheets on the first run-through. Then I record the revisions. It’s easier that way. I can take them with me. Work in the car on the way home or at odd moments when I’m free.”
“That night? You were here until when?”
“I’ve told you all this before, Detective. How many times do you need to hear it?”
“Until I close the cell door on a murderer.”
Beaver frowns, seeing the trap if he wasn’t forthcoming. “I left shortly after one thirty. Julia and I walked out together. I offered her a ride home, but she reminded me her car was back from the shop, so we parted ways.”
He stares at Jared challengingly, waiting for the next question. When it comes, he’s not prepared for it.
“You’re pretty fond of Ackles, aren’t you?”
A moment of silence fills the room up to the ceiling. Jared’s narrowed eyes search Beaver’s expression for what he’s sure is there. He sees it in the belligerent tip of a chin.
“I’m fond of all of my authors,” Beaver says smoothly.
The man is cool as ice, but Jared waits him out, staring impassively, knowing his non-response will force Beaver to clarify, unable to leave his last words out there naked between them.
“They bring money into the House,” he finally rasps, tone a little agitated at being forced to voice the postscript. There’s a wariness in Beaver’s eyes that wasn’t there before. “I don’t see what that has to do with the murder.”
“Do you give all you authors presents? Or is it just Jensen?”
Beaver’s spine stiffens. He sits up straighter, a small twitch of the lips telling Jared more than he’d hoped for. The man doesn’t like him calling Jensen by his first name, and he doesn’t like Jared knowing about the presents. Beaver shoots a defensive glare Jared’s way, his caution slipping as Jared prods him with sharpened questions, a picador jabbing the maddened bull.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re implying. There’s nothing improper about my relationship with Jensen. He and I have a special closeness. I’ve been his mentor and friend from the day he walked into my office. He relies on me. It’s only natural that on occasion I’ve given him several gifts to commemorate our bond.”
“That right? Only natural? Huh. Like what kind of gifts?”
“I don’t see how this is any of your business, Sargent.”
Jared squashes his smirk, noticing his demotion. He leans back in his seat, making himself more comfortable, lifts an eyebrow at Beaver’s pinched face. The man is no longer concealing his vivid animosity.
“Look. You can play nice here, or I can haul you downtown and make this a whole lot nastier. I don’t see what the problem is, Beaver. Are you embarrassed? You weren’t giving him silk underwear or bondage gear, were you? Or maybe you wanted to and thought he’d throw it back in your face.”
The scald of pink that rushes into Beaver’s cheek looks almost painful. “How dare you, you two-bit reject from a bad movie. I’m calling my lawyer. You can’t talk to me like that. I’m no pathetic junkie you’ve dragged in off the streets and can kick around for the fun of it.”
“Did you know Jeffrey Morgan was fucking Tom Welling?” Jared says conversationally. “And using Ackles penthouse for their assignations when he was out of town?”
Interrogation technics are Jared’s forte; the switch up, forcing emotion in place of calculated indifference, throwing the suspect off-balance with the unexpected. The one-two combination silences Beaver, the man left blinking, his mouth agape. He sinks back into the seat he’s risen from.
“No.” The low murmur is barely a whisper. “I didn’t.” He rubs a hand over his face, the dark rings under his eyes standing out more prominently. “Please. I need a drink.”
Crossing to a large, sun-burst mirror that hangs prominently between the bookshelves, Beaver presses a recessed button. The mirror swings out slowly, rotating and settling back in place to reveal a fully-stocked bar. With jerky movements, Beaver pours himself three fingers of expensive Scotch. Jared can read the label from where he sits. At the last minute, Beaver seems to remember himself.
“On duty?”
Before Jared can answer, Beaver jolts the liquor down his throat in one long, convulsive gulp.
“Uh. No thanks.”
It seems they’re back to being polite. Beaver refills his glass, the starch gone out of his posture.
“Some of those gifts were pretty expensive.” Jared begins again, not ready to lose his advantage.
“I’m a rich man. I can afford it.” Hooded eyes watched Jared warily, on to him now, leery for the next change of direction.
“Tell me about the grandfather clock. Where did you get it?”
This is Beaver’s chance to come clean, to tell Jared there isn’t one clock but two. Then Beaver can exclaim in shock when he hears about the shotgun. Jared’s not above dropping that little tidbit of information into his lap if it will shatter the last of Beaver’s reserve. He knows it’s a facade. His fingers are digging into the meat of the bastard. He feels the cracks spreading out, real emotion leaking through.
The murky depths of the man’s eyes shift. Jared almost wants to back off because what he’s thinking is so ugly, so twisted it’s giving him a belly ache. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and waits for Beaver’s reply.
“There’s nothing to tell. I found it at my favorite antique shop. The moment I looked at it, I knew it was meant for Jensen. You’ve seen the clock at the apartment?” At Jared’s nod, the man continues, a rapt expression settling over his face. “It’s beautiful and full of character. Just the way Jensen is. I had to have it. Those soft, deep greens and blues like the color of his eyes. The veneer silky under my fingertips when I touched it. He...it took my breath away.” The trance-like whisper of Beaver’s voice snaps at his mistake. He blinks, tone turning brusk. “The price was irrelevant. You can’t put a dollar sign on something so exquisite. So I bought it as a symbol of friendship.”
“Very moving.”
The last of the Scotch hits the back of Beaver’s throat. He coughs, a spasm of distaste feathering over his features, before his sets the glass down carefully, walking back to loom over Jared’s seated form.
“You sarcasm is duly noted. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the more delicate connection between people.”
Jared pushes up from his chair, stretching his six foot four frame to its full height. The revelation has sickened him, but he doesn’t let it show, careful to keep his expression a neutral mask. Beaver had the hots for Jensen, and Jensen walked out on him. Was in the process of slipping from under his thumb after being deluged with gifts and Beaver’s “special” kind of friendship. There have been more tenuous motives for murder.
++++++++++++++++
screencap by animotus
“It wasn’t like that. He’s an old man, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got a fucking dirty mind, Jared.”
Jensen flattens his palm against Jared chest and pushes hard enough to make him stagger back a few feet out of his space. But Jared won’t be denied on this one. He’s revved up and feeling murderous after having his suspicions confirmed. Knowing Jensen could have told him and didn’t.
Trapping the irate man between a potted plant and a table full of nicknacks that chatter angrily when he bangs it with his elbow, Jared presses Jensen into the wall. Pinning his wrists down, he mashes his nose against a stubbled cheek, breathing Jensen in, all spice and a lingering scent of Jared himself. He finds the squirming mouth that tries to evade him, kisses it hungrily and deep, unrelenting.
“He wants to fuck that pretty little ass of yours,” Jared accuses, lifting his mouth enough for Jensen to answer. Sharp serpent hisses of fury burn his lips.
“No. No fucking way. It wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The next kiss is sloppier, rougher. Letting go of Jensen’s wrists, Jared finds himself assaulted with punches. They glance off his shoulders and ears, pummel his sides.
“Bastard. Bastard,” Jensen pants.
There’s an ugly ripping sound. Jared’s looks down to see his shirt torn open, the hard, smooth lines of one pectoral exposed.
“Go on,” he says, grabbing Jensen’s hand and slamming it against his chest “Rip it up some more. Come on. I like it.”
He grabs Jensen hand, forcing him to grip the hanging material and pull. Buttons pop as the tear widens. A tightly puckered nipple is unveiled.
“You like the way I give cock. You want some more, don’t you, baby? All you have to do is ask.”
There’s no answer, only a primitive growl. Jensen is putting up a ferocious fight. Jared grabs him around the waist, ducking his head to avoid the flailing punches, and lifts Jensen off his feet.
Later, the lamplight illumination spills over their bodies, slick with sweat, turned golden in its glow. An erotic sculpture come to life, they move in slow motion, muscles bunching then relaxing, Jensen’s thigh slung across the bend of Jared’s elbow. The rounded curve of his spread cheeks part for the thick length of prick that eases in past his slack muscle. He flexes his hips, teeth biting a pattern of anguish into the swell of his plump mouth.
“Jared. I can’t take it any more.”
His head pushes back into the pillow. Jared swoops down, cock gone still, and licks softly over the pale cords of his throat.
“You hurtin’, lover? Tell me.”
“Oh Jesus.” Jensen’s thrashes weakly, mouth slack with need. “Have to let go. Can’t hold back any more.”
Jared’s cock slips farther inside, round, heavy balls nuzzling the sensitive silk below Jensen’s hole. He moves his hips in a slow circle, listening to Jensen moan in anguish, shadows of lashes fluttering on broad, Indian cheeks.
“It’s so good when you’re like this. All spread open. Your muscles loose for me. I could fuck you forever like this.”
Jensen lifts his head up, eyes bleary. His mouth opens and close like a baby bird seeking sustenance. Jared gives him tongue, fills his parted lips with it, tasting teeth and skin, the looping sweetness of Jensen eating him back. They suck and hover, time slowing to a crawl, until Jared presses his fingertips in beside his cock. Jensen stiffens when they run together across the swollen bundle of nerves that’s nearly numb with pleasure.
“Oh,” he moans, and it’s a sigh and a prayer all at once.
Jensen’s cum is warm velvet over Jared’s belly. He tightens his abdominal muscles, finishing the long, slow orgasm for him as Jensen lays pliant, lax fingers beside his head. Jared’s own cock opens and spills its release into the friction-hot rectum, the way a weakened dam might burst and overflow it’s banks.
They sleep and night closes in.