“Fuck it.” He dipped in for another taste, reveling in the sweetness of the man’s hot mouth. “I’d rather be lost in you.”
The soft light from the windows moved slowly through the room, a storm’s rolling clouds throwing shadows through the curtains. The play of dark and luminosity snagged at the curves and planes of Damien’s outstretched body, pouring handfuls of black and gold over his pale skin. Sionn sat up, rested his weight on his knees, and slid off the sweats Damien had been wearing.
Sionn tried not to focus solely on the slender cock lying on the man’s thigh or the black down it nested in. He certainly didn’t want to think about the stretch of flushed pink sac beneath Damien’s sex or the flash of plum-dark taint below them. If he did, he was sure to lose himself, like he was a schoolboy at his first peek at a naughty picture.
He was hard from the wanting, and the man’s cock stirred, alive and promising, but it would have to wait.
“Let me take a good look at you, Damie boy.” Sionn couldn’t chase away the Gaelic thickening his tongue any more than he could have wished the blood to stop rushing to his dick. “Sit up for me and let me look at how beautiful you are.”
Damien peered up at him through a mass of damp black hair, then nodded. He moved slowly, carefully, as if his limbs were new, and Sionn reached for him and slid him over to the middle of the mattress.
“God above, Damie,” Sionn whispered. “You are so… fucking damned beautiful.”
Goose bumps raked up over Damie’s inked back, and Sionn crouched over him, rubbing at the man’s shoulders. He laughed and leaned into the warmth of Sionn’s body, shivering slightly, but he sat still, letting Sionn’s hands roam over him.
The ravages of the accident and months spent scraping by were plain on Damien’s lean body. Naked and in the murmur of light creeping into the room, every scar and discoloration on the man stood out vividly, slashes of pink or healed-over beige on ivory skin. Thinner scars ran up from his belly and around to his back, crisscrossing over his rib cage, and Sionn no longer wondered how he’d gotten them. Similar old marbling scored Damien’s thighs, wrapping around his muscles in slender lines. They were all markers of a man’s hatred for his son, and Damien Mitchell wore them with pride.
The patchwork was subtle, the marks of a life Sionn knew practically nothing about. Still, everything about Damien hummed with a sensuality Sionn couldn’t believe he’d missed before. Battle worn, Damien exuded an unbreakable confidence, battered by a storm he could not hide from but supple enough to bend to its strong winds.
With Damien’s back bared before him, he could now see the subtle stamp of scars under the kirin, a lifetime of pain drowned beneath ink and determination. There were some points where Sionn could believe Damie’s father had cut down nearly to the bone, deep wells of thickened skin forming unforgiving channels beneath the tattoo. The artist who’d done the work was skilled at his craft, tucking away the accordion folds of flesh into vibrant, deep colors, masking them into the design.
Sionn kissed Damien’s hands, inspecting the complex construct of bone and skin he’d heard create music out of steel and wood. Two fingers on his right hand were bent inward at the second joint, marring the graceful lines, and his nails were bitten off short, their ragged edges speckled with gray threads from Sionn’s cotton pants.
“I must have been blind not to see you, Damien.” Sionn drank his fill, mindful of the man’s cooling body, but he needed to simply look at the shattered angel who’d fallen into his life.
“You’ve got way too much fucking clothes on, Irish,” Damien murmured, tugging at Sionn’s waistband. “How about if we get this show on the road so I can start begging for an encore?”
“You’re asking a lot of me there. Let’s see how it does on the first go-around before we even think about seconds, you greedy idjit.”
If anyone could be accused of greed, it would have to be him, Sionn thought. With the front door locked and the shades drawn, they could hide away from the world for at least a week. Maybe more if he ordered in food instead of cooking. Either way, it was a tempting proposition.
If he weren’t so sure his family would hunt him down with torches and pitchforks if he missed going to the dinner he’d promised them.
A quick glance at the clock and some fast math later, they had hours left before they had to drag themselves out.
“Hope to goddamn hell those rubbers I’ve got are still good.” Sionn tried to remember when he’d bought them. “What the fuck is the shelf life on those?”