A Kiss Is Just A Kiss…

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Adam Hollister shrugs his way out of his evening jacket, wincing and groaning and generally carrying on as if he’s just returned from the Battle of the Somme, gravely wounded and about to breathe his last. So far as Jack Lincoln knows, Adam was merely supposed to be representing their burgeoning PR firm at a dinner, being wooed by contractors who wanted their business. The black eye looks like the courtship got a little rough.

Jack helps him out of the jacket, grimacing in sympathy at the way Adam hisses with pain and trying not to think unworthy thoughts about how smoking hot Adam is in formal evening gear. Because Adam is. In his ordinary, day-to-day jeans and untucked shirt, Adam is hot enough to make Jack’s breath come short. Adam in evening clothes has Jack heading into severe respiratory distress and a pressing need for oxygen. Or something.

He turns Adam’s face towards the light. The skin around the left eye is blackening already, a powerful contrast to the green of the iris, and there’s a nasty-looking cut on his eyebrow held together with a couple of butterfly steristrips. He’s bled all over the front of his best dress shirt. “You’re getting one helluva shiner there. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were invited out to a business dinner by Williams Design, right?”

“You know it.”

“Indulge me here. And the point of that was not only because Thom Williams lusts after your pretty arse—which is why he only ever invites you and not me—but so they could smooch you to get more contracts out of us?”

“You know that too.”

“I’m just checking, to make sure I wasn’t operating under some sort of misapprehension and we’d got the invitations mixed up. Because you’ve come back looking like you were at the bottom of a rugby scrum.”

“Thom jabbed me in the face with his elbow.”

“Why did you let him do that, you great lummox?”

“There was a power failure and a bit of a panic when the lights went out. People were running about all over the place. His PA fell off her heels and knocked me flying into Thom, who jabbed me in the eye and as I pulled back from that, I went down the stairs. Luckily only half a dozen steps, but still.” Adam touched the cut gingerly. “I have no idea how I did this. If Thom hadn’t looked so horrified, I’d suspect he did it on purpose.”

“Probably a moment of blind rage because you’re immune to smooching and your arse belongs to me. Stand still.” In the bathroom, Jack runs a handkerchief under the tap, returns to the bedroom and dabs gently at the cut above Adam’s eyebrow. Adam does a bit more hissing and jerks his head back like a nervous horse. “Thom must have very sharp elbows.”

“All the better to get rid of your opponents on the way up to the top. He didn’t get to own his company on charm and hard work.”

“Still, it’s a novel way to impress yourself on your clients. Literally.”

Adam manages a sort of grin. “Not half. Leave it, Jack. It’ll be all right.”

“Did you get a doctor to take a look at it?”

“The paramedics were called out. One looked. He said it didn’t need stitches. He also said I wasn’t dead yet and wasn’t likely to need major surgery. I was barely walking wounded, in fact, and would I care to stop cluttering up his ambulance and leave it for those who really needed his medical services?” Adam looks more than a little put out. “He did give me a couple of pain-killers though, before he threw me out.”

“Bloody NHS.” Jack is slightly despairing. There are days when Adam isn’t safe to be allowed out without a nanny. “Typical. This is just typical. You have to be the only person in the business who gets taken to dinner, caught in a power blackout, trapped in the Banqueting Chamber with everyone getting blasted on champagne, caught in the subsequent panic and half-riot—”

“There were lots of other people trapped in there,” protests Adam. “Including my host. Who was also very blasted.” He adds, bitterly, “I wish I’d been blasted.”

“So do I. Because did anybody else throw themselves down a staircase in the dark and end up in an ambulance being snarked at by compassionate paramedics?”

Adam shakes his head.

“Thought so. At least, the champagne might have anaesthetised you a bit when it came to letting people shove sharp elbows in your eye. Honestly, what were you thinking? You should have sat tight on that nice neat bottom of yours and waited for the lights to come back on, not gone traipsing about in the dark. ‘Died in an elbow attack’ does not look good on the firm’s annual report. It means you haven’t achieved your full potential. It’s disappointing. It’s downright ridiculous. It’s just not done.”

“Are you seriously saying that to achieve my full potential I have to die in a blaze of glory?”

“It’s written in the staff handbook somewhere.” Jack puts one hand against Adam’s poor contused cheek. “You look tired.”

“I am dead on my feet.”

“No you aren’t. That paramedic said so.” Jack grins. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m too tired to sleep.” But Adam lets Jack pull him towards the bed. “And I’m bruised and aching all over. Not tonight, Josephine. Sorry.”

“Puh. You won’t have to do a thing. I’ll do all the work, as usual.” As he speaks, Jack helps ease Adam’s white dress shirt over his shoulders. “In deference to your concussion and bruises.”

That’s a very inelegant snort Adam has there.

It takes him a little while to get Adam down to his skin. Jack likes to savour his pleasures and undressing Adam definitely falls into that category. It’s a treat. Or maybe A Treat. Better than an ice cream Mars Bar on a hot day. It involves a lot of touching, murmuring and kissing to give Adam his full meed of worship and reverence.

Jack Lincoln never rests on his laurels, you see. It has taken him a long time to win Adam Hollister and he isn’t going to risk that victory by any lack of attention to detail in his efforts to keep Adam happy. Really, in his attempts to keep Adam.

Mine, he thinks.

Removing the shirt involves a lot of concentration on Adam’s shoulders as Jack uncovers them. Adam has nice shoulders, well developed and smooth skinned. Jack likes them. He mouths the skin gently as he slowly works the shirt down over Adam’s arms. That’s fun, especially when Jack starts across Adam’s collarbones and then moves south down his chest, licking and kissing as he goes, and down the softer skin of Adam’s belly. When he glances up, Adam’s grinning and things have perked up considerably. He looks a lot less like the Battle of the Somme, and a lot more interested in what Jack’s doing.

It doesn’t take much, Jack thinks, but with a deep affection.

Getting Adam’s trousers off is a job that has to be done carefully and thoroughly. Jack takes his time. It’s not because he’s not eager to get cracking with the delights that Adam hides in his trousers, mind you; it’s more that Jack loves the anticipation, savouring what’s to come. Taking his time getting there adds a piquancy that never stales.

Mine.

He loves the slow pulling down of the zip, the way that his left hand has to rest on Adam’s hip to hold the material taut so he can get a good grip on the metal tag and start tugging. Adam always jumps slightly when Jack’s hand rubs gently against the jutting hip bone and Jack looks forward to that. Adam grins at him, and licks his lips. Oh yes. Definitely no concussion and an increasing interest in what Jack’s doing. Adam is well on the way to recovery. Jack’s grip tightens as he smiles back and leans down for another kiss. There are a lot of kisses. Not that he’s counting and definitely not complaining.

He loves the way that Adam’s hips move up slowly until Adam’s bowed upward, balanced on his heels and his shoulders to allow Jack to slide the waistband down. Adam often holds the pose for a second or two, to allow Jack to run both hands over Adam’s buttocks, smoothing the softer fabric of the boxers against them. They’re always warm in Jack’s hands, firm, inviting. When Adam straightens his bowed back and lowers his hips, he crooks a finger at Jack, beckoning for another kiss. Jack loves that too, licking his way into Adam’s hot, wet mouth.

Mine.

He loves teasing the fabric down over Adam’s knees. He kisses his way down the inside of Adam’s left thigh, loving every little twitch as the strong muscles contract and quiver under his tongue. Then he goes back and licks and kisses his way down Adam’s right thigh, soothing the little quivers all the way down to Adam’s knees. Jack loves Adam’s knees. There’s a little scar on the right one that Adam got falling off his bicycle in the Euston Road to avoid being mown down by a taxi—honestly, the man really isn’t safe out alone. Jack presses his lips against the scar, tongue washing the shiny, puckered skin. That makes Adam laugh, the deep, throaty laugh that no one other than Jack ever hears. It fills Jack with the warmth of melted marshmallow that Adam has a laugh for him alone.

Mine.

He loves freeing Adam’s feet. Adam has long feet, like his hands; a patrician’s hands and feet, long and slender and elegant. He licks Adam’s ankles, swirling his tongue around them. It’s a shame that Adam’s feet have to be hidden inside shoes and boots for most of the time. It’s a shame too, remarks Jack, that despite their elegance, Adam falls over his own feet so often. He whisks the pants away and finally frees the long legs. Adam pouts, and Jack goes back for another little kiss or six, consoling this time.

And Jack really loves knowing that he gets to do this all over again as he takes off Adam’s boxers. And when he starts, hands settling on Adam’s hips and finger slipping under the waistband to touch warm skin, Adam’s hiss isn’t one of pain. Not now. Jack thinks Adam may have entirely forgotten about the bruises and the nicely-developing black eye. His contortions to allow Jack to pull off the boxers have a new energy and quickening enthusiasm. And in proof, Adam’s cock bobs up merrily when it’s released.

Still mine.

Jack settles back on his heels, settles his hands to cup Adam’s hips and just looks. Adam’s cock isn’t one of those humongous ones that make a man wince to think where it’s going—or wince with envy—but it’s a good size, thick and meaty with a flared head. It’s a nice cock. Jack’s very fond of it. It deserves a moment of silent admiration before he sets to work on it. Adam, damn him, lies back watching Jack, smiling and expectant.

Jack lifts one hand to his mouth, wets his thumb and runs it around the ridge just under the head. Adam’s breath catches on a hitch. As Jack’s thumb slides to the underside, to where the ridge meets, Adam’s entire body twitches. He sighs.

Jack smiles. He drops a kiss on the cock head, and jumps up. He’s out of his clothes in seconds—a skill he perfected as a teenager and has practised assiduously since. When he climbs back onto the bed, Adam has already parted his legs in anticipation. Jack kneels between them.

“Ready? Sure you aren’t too tired? Not too bruised and aching?”

“Get on with it,” Adam says, but he’s laughing.

Jack laughs with him. He cups Adam’s balls in one hand, massaging them gently. His tongue licks once around the head of Adam’s cock, along the little ridge, before he ducks his head down and licks along the entire underside of Adam’s cock, from root to top, sucking and kissing as he goes.

That works. Adam’s tenser than a watch spring, coiled ready to go off. He moans, his breathing quickening and harshening.

Mine.

Jack’s tongue finds the little join where the foreskin’s attached. He taps it with his tongue, laughing silently as Adam’s back arches. Adam whines a little. As you do, in such circumstances. Jack could bring him off in a minute, doing this, but that’s far too quick. Jack likes pleasuring Adam. He likes to savour it.

He goes back to the long, lazy licks up Adam’s cock, root to tip again. Like licking an ice cream cone on Brighton beach. Start slow and deep down, and move up, purposefully, varying the intensity of contact. Sometimes his tongue is hard up against it; sometimes gentle, barely touching, little butterfly touches that have Adam squirming and laughing. Once or twice when he reaches the tip, he encloses it in his mouth, sliding it in, and moves his head around in a circle to let the tip slide around his mouth. Clockwise. Anticlockwise. Never tightening his lips too much, but letting Adam’s cock find its own route around his mouth. It’s more fun that way. Lasts longer.

Mine.

He can keep this up for hours. Lick the shaft. Let it slide in. Flick his tongue over the tip. Apply a tiny amount of suction. Flutter his tongue over the tip. Lick again. Let it slide again. More suction. More butterfly touches of tongue and fingers. Lick around the ridge below the head. Suck on the join underneath. Vary pace and pressure. Fast and hard. Slow and soft. Slow and hard. Fast and gentle. Slow and gentle. Fast and hard… over and over, while massaging Adam’s balls with one hand and sliding a finger up and down the shaft with the other or slipping it under him to play with his opening.

Over and over.

Until Adam’s panting, thrusting with his hips, the head of his cock swelling a little in Jack’s mouth and the taste of pre-cum is bitter on Jack’s tongue. And Adam’s in spasms, hips jerking now, legs stiff, hands lifting out of Jack’s hair to curl into fists. Quick as a flash, Jack presses his thumb against the base of Adam’s cock, stopping him, sucking hard on the head until Adam’s squirming and moaning, his hands reaching out and falling back helplessly, his lips drawn back and his jaw hard and set.

Mine.

Until Jack releases the pressure and lets him go and he comes and comes while Jack sucks him down, thrashing and yelling loud enough to frighten the cat.

Until Jack sits back on his heels again and watches him, smiling, licking his lips. And “That’s all your bruises kissed better, then,” he says.

Adam breathes hard. He reaches out a hand. Jack takes it, laces their fingers together.

All mine.

“Mine,” he says.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Adam says, and smiles.

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~end~

Copyright 2014 Anna Butler

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