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"Stay there," Saxon said. "Stay right fucking there. Don't—"
The quality of the video call was too good. It was never this good with anyone else. It was so good that he could almost make out the muffled music that Lochlan played in the background to cover their tracks. Saxon could hear his sharp exhales, and, one time, the slight wheeze of his fading cough. Saxon could see the sweat glisten on Lochlan's cheek like the remains of rain—and the glint of his teeth in the dark of his mouth—and he could see the grainy texture of the wooden headboard behind him—and the bottom of some kind of black and white poster that he never caught the origin of and never was in a position to ask about.
He could see, now, the corner of Lochlan's lips curve into something rotten. His cheek, too soft, too ripe, rising in amusement. Saxon's strokes stuttered. His cock throbbed in his grip, craving the return of a steady rhythm.
"Stick out your tongue," Saxon demanded.
Lochlan complied. He stuck out his tongue, first a little, like he was making fun of Saxon, which made him go cross-eyed with shame and whatever else. Then out came more and more of that tongue—pink, and narrow, curling slightly to touch his top lip before it flattened out over his bottom lip. Then he opened his little mouth wide, as wide as he could, before Saxon could ask.
Saxon wondered, idly, if his face hurt from doing it. But Lochlan didn't complain. With his dark eyes, and his neck arched, he just looked like a satisfied snake—too lazy to shut its mouth after feeding, drunk on sun.
"Just like that," Saxon said, roughly. He didn't take his eyes off Lochlan as he reached for more lube. His cock had begun to chafe, just a bit, magnified by his speedy strokes.
Lochlan swallowed. Saxon watched as the movement slid down his throat. God, he wanted to put his cock in there so badly—so, so badly—right in that hungry fucking heat he just knew would welcome him in. But he wanted a bit of a fight tonight. He wanted to bully himself inside, just a little, pinch Lochlan's chin downwards, make him open up.
Saxon would never—he would never do it—never ever, not really, not in real life. But this was different. This was a compromise. This was just between them, this being able to look at him again, and this being able to make Lochlan look back at him again. It was just something they could do with each other. It was something Saxon needed. If he didn't have this, he didn't know what would happen.
It was almost functional, these calls, and what Saxon got from Lochlan during them. It was like visiting a carwash—though, admittedly, Saxon did not leave these calls any cleaner than how he entered them. If anything, he left them covered in a kind of grime that, five years ago, would have been inconceivable to him. But there he was. It was, he told himself, the lesser evil. Because imagine if he had consented to actually meeting Lochlan, visiting him in New York, like Piper had been vaguely angling for ever since he and Lochlan had got back in touch. Imagine Lochlan within his reach. Imagine Lochlan just inches away from his—in public, in private, both. Imagine—
It wasn't the worst thing in the world, what they were doing, because it wasn't exactly real, what they were doing. It was just imagining. They never really discussed this—this imagining—how could they? with what words?—but it would end up happening, sometimes, every time, after the conclusion of mundane updates about family, work, school, friends (topics that were off the table: dating, sex, dad, the great Kingdom of Thailand). It would end up happening, sometimes, every time, after a conversation about whatever mom-logistics petered out, which it always did, quicker than it should have. It would end up happening once Saxon felt the back of his neck begin to itch, like he was being stared at by someone behind him. Of course, the only person that would be looking at Saxon was right there, right in front of him. So, Saxon didn't know what the itch meant.
This person, who was right there, and right in front of him, was important. This was because it only ever really happened, however you wanted to define 'it' and 'only' and 'really' and 'happened', once Lochlan got that look in his eyes. It was a look that meant he was waiting for something. This was either permission or instruction, or for the other person on the call to catch up to him. Maybe it was some impossible, horrible combination of the three.
"Stay right there," Saxon groaned. "Look at me."
The first time they did this, when it became evident that Saxon was going to put his hand in his sweatpants, and that Lochlan was going to stay on the phone while that happened, Saxon fervently flicked away the little self-camera box that showed him his own face. He didn't want to see himself doing what he was doing. He didn't want to see what Lochlan saw. And, truthfully, he wanted more square footage of Lochlan's face, his neck, his shoulders. Saxon had re-developed a kind of tunnel vision about him over the past couple of years. He didn't like to think about it too hard.
You could say that Lochlan was trapped in the screen of Saxon's phone. Because they didn't really text each other, he would just show up on Saxon's screen some nights and when they were done he would be gone. So, there was no record of what they said and what they did—discounting whichever Homeland Security surveillance schmuck was jerking off to them.
It felt weird to know that this screen, where Lochlan remained, was nonetheless the same screen where Saxon lived the vast majority of his life. It was where he watched slowly-creeping Ubers, his Ring app, Piper's Instagram stories, updates from DoorDash, ads for Theragun knock-offs, videos of muscle-heads whining from getting fucked by pretty cocks, flesh and silicone, bent over and groped by greedy lisping twinks wanting to teach them a lesson, and also old clips of Family Guy on YouTube. But it was the same screen. This was the screen where Lochlan lived.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, look at me," Saxon mumbled. "Just like—"
Early on, Saxon had noticed something. Lochlan was never not holding his phone with both hands. Or, even if he were holding it with just the one hand, the other one would always be somewhere in sight: in his hair, on his face. But these hands never seemed to stray anywhere beyond the frame of Saxon's phone. This suggested that neither of Lochlan's hands seemed interested in the rest of Lochlan's body. This was strange to Saxon, given his own increasing interest in this body. But it was a habit that Lochlan never seemed to want to break even as these calls increased in both frequency and depravity.
Saxon himself had already reached a point where even two hands weren't enough for what he wanted to do to himself in front of Lochlan. He had been considering investing in some hardware (sexual and technological) that would have allowed him the opportunity—if not quite the means or courage—to finger himself while he jerked himself off while on the video call. He had eventually decided against it, fearing the implications of any physical evidence of what he got up to during these calls.
In any event, back then, once Saxon had noticed this element of their calls, he hadn't fully known what he wanted to do with the information. He had waited on it for a while. But then, not too long after, choked and afraid, not yet knowing what this was, or could be, or had to be, Saxon had simply asked, or hoped—
"Are you—hard?"
Lochlan had startled. This was a new kind of question.
"Touch yourself," Saxon had pushed, "I don't—I don't mind—fuck, just let me see—"
"I'm okay," Lochlan had replied.
He had, in fact, sounded okay. He had sounded a little breathless. But he had sounded okay. His hands were steady on his phone, his camera-work miles away from Saxon's worse-than-amateur porn cinematography.
Saxon had moaned. He had been unhappy at being denied the thing he couldn't stop imagining of late. It was a hair's-breadth less than an intrusive thought. He had had the tools to conjure this image for some time, but had never felt the need to do so until the tools themselves had grown heavy with his mucky desire, oppressively so, in recent years. Denied to Saxon was this: the vision of that slim cock, dense with need, a need for someone it couldn't have, rising from those cropped brown curls, taken into that big, careful hand.
But Saxon had, nevertheless, been unable to stop jerking himself off. If anything, he had felt himself grow harder at Lochlan's opaque reaction. His back had already begun to complain as he tried hard to chase the inevitable.
Saxon had gone dizzy, split in half. He was anguished and aroused at the thought that Lochlan was not getting hard during their calls, but was still alert, his eyes sharp and his ears perked as he waited for Saxon to tell him what to do—and at the thought that, conversely, Lochlan was hard as nails, right then, but he was just too busy looking at Saxon to care about getting off himself. Either option was so fucking sexy, Saxon thought, and letting himself want Lochlan let him have them both.
"Fuck," Saxon had said. "I want to come. I want to come so fucking bad."
"Yeah?" Lochlan had said. He peered into his phone.
"Yeah," Saxon had said, in a minor-key whine, and then he hung up before he did.
In the earlier versions of these calls, Saxon always hung up before he actually came. It had been some humiliating semblance of a boundary, some feigning of care for their mutual modesty—but it didn't last. They weren't made for stuff like that. And it wasn't that Lochlan had never expressed a preference either way. He had a preference. It was Saxon's. Because he seemed very clearly to want whatever Saxon wanted—whether that was perfect, horny coincidence or troubling, horny consequence was unclear. But it was always a thought so hot that Saxon sometimes chubbed up at work thinking about it. But frequently it also made Saxon want to kill himself. But he couldn't stop. He should've blocked his number, maybe, or told Lochlan to block him. But Saxon didn't. His was a sickness disguised as power—though maybe that was just what power was.
It was only ever Saxon who asked for things on these calls—directed, pleaded, demanded, wished. He asked Lochlan for so much. He became a parody of himself with him. Everything above his shoulders was fair game. Look at me, open your mouth, show me your neck, let me see your ears, closer, pull them, harder, suck your thumb, more, deeper, wetter, yeah, show me, look at me, no, don't look at me, turn away from me, look at me, pout, more, push your bottom lip out, that's it, bite your lip—
Lochlan never really asked Saxon for anything. Once, he asked Saxon to turn on a lamp. Saxon didn't think that counted. However, once, not too long ago, there had been an exceptional disturbance in their almost mechanical routine. Lochlan had asked for something. But it wasn't just an asking. It was a knowing.
"Go faster," Lochlan had said. "You like it faster."
Saxon had let out a terrible, broken sound. His whole body had twitched and he had nearly dropped the phone on his face. When he had readjusted his position, Lochlan was just looking at him. Then he had licked his lips, very slowly, like he was trying to be sexy, and unfortunately it worked. Watching that tongue slide over that bottom lip in the way that it did, with no warning, had made Saxon feel very, very ill.
"Fuck," Saxon had muttered, fixated on his mouth, his damp grip barely able to hold onto his phone. "Jesus—fuck."
"Yeah," Lochlan had said. "Come on."
"Watch me," Saxon had said, no longer in control of his body, jerking himself off fast, like he had been asked, "Look at me."
"What are you thinking about?" Lochlan asked, which he never usually did, and his voice was low, and Saxon had asked him why he was being such a cocktease—like Lochlan didn't already know that all Saxon could think about was the obscene width of his hand around his heavy fucking cock.
Lochlan's breathing had gone haywire. He had asked Saxon to tell him what else he was imagining. That had been his second—third?—request of that night.
At which point, of course, of course, Lochlan suddenly froze on him like a mime gone very wrong. Saxon had never known agony like it. There Lochlan was, just staring at him, which was nothing too unusual. But he was utterly inert—not even ghostly, just like he was dead. Saxon, silenced by this uncanny Lochlan, had felt his vision grow murky. A less animalistic part of him was already considering a class action against AT&T. Then, in the very next second, Lochlan was already speaking, and the roar in Saxon's ears spun to nothing:
"Can you—um, can you open your mouth," Lochlan had said.
The audio had come in quicker than his own chewed-pink lips could move. Lochlan had looked so embarrassed. He had never asked for anything real on these calls and in the last thirty seconds he had asked for four. Greedy, greedy, Saxon had thought, unwilling to believe his luck—good luck, bad luck, he could not say.
"Open your mouth—please," Lochlan had said, again, and Saxon had crumbled. "I want to see."
"Yeah," Saxon had moaned, relief and pleasure and despair settling on him like an anvil, "Yeah, yeah, fuck—"
And he had parted his lips wide, his tongue rigidly extended out against the corner of his mouth. He was a receptacle. Lochlan would give him anything, everything, and he would take it. He wanted it all.
"I'm going to taste you," Saxon had said, like a promise. "I'm going to suck on your soft little cock and make it come down my throat."
He had never imagined doing any of that. Once he had said those terrible words, he felt like an idiot. But as he was saying it, those words, in that order, to Lochlan, they came together to sound like the only true thing he had ever said in his life.
Lochlan's eyes—turning big and bright in baffled wonder—
"Lochy," Saxon had gasped. "Lochy, Lochy, Lochy."
The next time they spoke, neither acknowledged what each had said to the other. Saxon returned to his more utilitarian instructions. Lochlan returned to just watching and listening, his aura of selfless service. But the past would always bleed into the present.
And, in the present, Lochlan's tongue was lazily lolling out at him, and he was looking at Saxon with those eyes, and Saxon was attempting to go faster and faster as he masturbated to his little brother's face. Lochlan hadn't asked Saxon to go faster this time. He was currently being, as was his usual fashion, almost impersonal about it—like he was just there to offer a public service. But he had told Saxon to go faster, just that once, not too long ago, and he had gotten something from making Saxon talk himself into circles. Saxon had never forgotten.
His wrist was in agony now as he stared at Lochlan's open, waiting mouth, and his half-lidded eyes. Saxon wanted to make it last for himself, but Lochlan had been right. He did like it fast. He just did. He couldn't wait. It was the same when he had sex—it was too fast, the women said, some of them mockingly, some of them disappointedly, some of them gratefully. But Lochlan made it sound good. He made it sound like it was a good thing, Saxon liking it fast and hard and selfish.
"Close your mouth," Saxon exhaled. "Turn, show me your jaw. Yeah. Put your fingers on your face—yeah, just like that. Rub your jaw."
Lochlan had been following his directions when he suddenly let out the smallest sound. It shut Saxon up. The sound was—it was needy. It was unexpected, unusual, not so impersonal. Lochlan didn't usually make sounds like that. Keeping his mouth open like that for that long must have been uncomfortable, and he must have taken pleasure from the comfort Saxon was giving him now. But he hadn't wavered from the pain he gave him, either. He had stayed open for Saxon. And now he was being molded back into shape through his hands, which were Saxon's hands by proxy.
Saxon groaned at the thought. He was too taken with the sound Lochlan had just made, and with his own cock, and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, to care that they were entering fraught territory once again, not too long after their last little hiccup. But with Lochlan making that noise—the possibility of his being a wanting body again—Saxon was too revved up to put up much of a fight.
"That's right," Saxon whispered to him, mindless. He spread his legs, the fingers that had been briefly caressing his balls brought further back to stroke his taint. It was still new terrain there. The feeling with the lube was like slippery, torturous licks against that sensitive strip. "Feel better?"
It was maybe fine to ask something like that. It was a question of well-being.
"Mmm," Lochlan said. He looked unsure, but he sounded eager. He kept rubbing circles around the hinge of his jaw. He also kept staring at Saxon. "Yeah. Feels so good."
"Shit," Saxon said, sucking in a breath, his chest suddenly tight. Lochlan always knew the exact way to make something so much more worse than it had to be. And Saxon, also born with a silver shovel in his hand, found himself growing desperate, pathetic, desperate for him.
"Maybe we gotta kiss it better," Saxon said, heart thumping. "Kiss where it hurts."
"Right here," Lochlan said, gesturing to his jaw, playing along beautifully. The hand on his phone, and so too the screen, was trembling now. The hand on his jaw stroked the hinge of it.
Saxon's mouth went dry, thinking of the smell of him there. Sweat, soap, his old cologne. Saxon's hand returned to his impatient cock with force.
"Where else—," Saxon said, clearing his throat. "Where else does it hurt?"
The lube was making awful noises as he handled himself from base to tip, back and forth, compulsive. He winced from how red raw the sensation was, even with the slick glide. Lochlan's lips parted. Maybe he could hear him pretty well, too.
"Here," Lochlan said, still looking at him, and dragging his fingers to brush his cheek. "And here," he said, running his thumb down the bridge of his freckled nose. "And here," he said, tapping his bottom lip. Soft, slim, mobile, so fucking kissable.
Lochlan then bared his neck to him—like he wanted to be kissed there, or bitten, or sucked.
"It hurts—here," Lochlan said, his voice rough, and knowing. He wrapped his fingers around his throat, and twisted his head slightly so that he could keep watching Saxon.
"Fuck," Saxon said. Slut, he thought darkly, possessively, and then he felt ashamed for thinking that. His toes curled in lurid pleasure and then he tried his luck—going too fast, no finesse, as always. He asked, with sordid sincerity: "Does it hurt—does it hurt anywhere else?"
Lochlan licked his lips again, nervous, maybe not even meaning to tempt. It still made Saxon feel like he was being fish-hooked through his navel.
"Yeah," Lochlan said. His earlier confidence had dissipated. But it made him sound—almost—coy. "It hurts. You—you know where."
"Yeah?" Saxon breathed, hypnotized. "Fuck, baby. I—fuck, gotta kiss it better there, too, then."
Lochlan liked that very much. He looked like he was on the edge of smiling again.
"You got me hard," he said, almost accusing. Saxon shuddered. This was turning out to be a new kind of phone call.
"Touch yourself," Saxon told him, urgently. "Let me—let me see it. You never let me—"
Feeling his orgasm begin to loom, Saxon moved his hand this way and that, searching for the right friction, the right spot, finding it and losing it and finding it again. But he was watching, spellbound, as Lochlan's hand began its own migration. He watched as it moved down from his throat, slow, as it reached his chest, and then as it moved down, slow, and until it finally disappeared from his screen.
Lochlan's sharp shoulder began to move, jerkily. The tendons of his neck strained. His arm was like a jackhammer. He liked it fast, too, Saxon thought, pained by this, and by old memories. He thought about what it would be like to lie down, side by side, getting each other off on a bed they could never, ever risk sharing, ever again.
Lochlan's eyelids fluttered as he tried to keep looking at his camera. Saxon devoured every pixel on his screen.
"Are you watching?" Lochlan breathed.
"Shut up," Saxon said. He didn't want to be. He couldn't not. The muscles of his thigh began to cramp.
"You are," Lochlan said.
His hair looked wet against his forehead. Saxon licked his lips, trying to taste the slick salt there. Then his mouth curled into a snarl.
"You're so fucking dirty." Saxon's heart was racing as he spoke. He was almost angry as he worked his cock. "Jerking it to me like that. You—you're making—"
"You want it," Lochlan slurred. "You wanted it so bad."
He interrupted what Saxon was saying—but this was good, he was glad he did, because what Saxon was saying was just something to say, anything to say, to manage his growing delirium—this fever rising from the things Saxon knew, he just knew, Lochlan was doing to himself in the blackness that marked the below of his screen. This void of deviant fucking possibility was full of things and skin and smells and tastes that Saxon could only imagine—and imagine he did, he did, he did—
"Fuck you," Saxon moaned as his cock turned harder in warning. Oh, shit—
"Fuck you," Lochlan laughed, and then he hissed from the sensation that Saxon had been gifting him, and with this thought bearing down upon him, Saxon came almost immediately. He gasped as he began to spill all over his stomach, which was taut with a hunger beyond closure.
It was too much. It was worse, better, than how these calls usually ended. It felt like Saxon was coming so much he would never be able to do it ever again. He could feel a flurry of humiliating words escape him— take it, baby, you want it, I know how much you need it —and through his bleary, pained, sweat-pricked gaze he could see Lochlan arch in response. He could see Lochlan push his phone further away from his face so that he could better show Saxon his sweet, perfect cock—thicker, darker, better than he imagined—smacking furiously against his hand. The sound of it was like—the sheer sleaze of skin over skin—
Lochlan was showing off his cock to him, gleaming wet with lube or lotion, drooling ever so slightly. Saxon was paralyzed. He could do nothing but swallow the nothing that leaked down his throat as Lochlan continued to bring himself off with sloppy conviction.
"This is how much I like you," Lochlan said. He sounded very sure about this. Saxon, wrung out as he was, abruptly rushed to cup himself.
Yes, he was drained. Yes, he wanted to drift, dirty and crusty, into sweat-soaked sheets and into unconsciousness. His arms were in such heart-shredding pain. Still, he never wanted this to end. He wanted to stay awake like this, with him, with Lochlan, and his cock, forever.
"What do I—" Saxon said, hesitating. He didn't know what to do. This wasn't how these calls usually went. These calls were about Saxon wanting to get off and Lochlan wanting that. He didn't know what Lochlan wanted now. He didn't know what he was meant to offer him. "What do you want?"
"I don't know," Lochlan said. His momentary calmness had been replaced with shock. He sounded almost betrayed, as if the question itself had set him up to fail. But his arm seemed to know very well—and his eyes, which were keenly focused on Saxon.
"Take off your shirt," he said, biting his lip. "I think I want to see you."
Saxon was winded by the time he ripped his shirt off and strategically rested his phone against his headboard. It threatened to slide off the pillow at any point but it was behaving for the moment. He sat cross-legged and, forcing himself not to pussy out, he let Lochlan look at him. He didn't know how much of him the camera was catching—but whether it was from the waist up, or less, or more, it seemed that Lochlan was satisfied.
"Yeah," Lochlan said, his voice cracking. His eyes roamed up and down, taking his fill. "That's what I wanted."
He was so pretty. Saxon wanted to pick him up and put him in his mouth.
"Can you turn around," Lochlan said, distracted, staring in the area of Saxon's chest.
Saxon's affection briefly ebbed.
"What?" he said.
"I want to see your ass," Lochlan said, which was a sentence that caused Saxon to physically jerk backwards. His phone nearly toppled over.
"Please?" Lochlan asked, noticing his alarm, and added, with a huff in his voice, "Please please please—"
This wasn't the real world, Saxon reminded himself, and so it was fine that he ended up responding to Lochlan in the way that he did. This was by almost immediately rising up, as if possessed, having sensed that itch at the back of his neck—and then having been suddenly overcome by that increasingly familiar, terrifying, thrilling awareness of the sexual existence of his ass—and what it might mean for Saxon to begin to have a body that could just as easily take in, suck in, hold in, as it did push and impose—and for him to take his pleasure in this different way, and from himself, or someone, in this different way. He was about to flee from the feeling—but he was moored, a little, by Lochlan's gorgeous hissy fit about wanting to see some version of this different Saxon.
But before he could fully turn away from Lochlan, and show him his ass, just as he had asked, because his brother (as it turned out) was a classic sort of pervert, a wounded sound reverberated in Saxon's bedroom. It appeared that Lochlan had spotted Saxon's cock, which was hanging damp, sticky, and soft between his thighs.
"Fuck," Lochlan panted, increasing the speed of his strokes. He looked like he was about to sneeze—or—"Wait, fuck, I'm going to—"
"You fucking wait," Saxon said.
He wanted this to be not so fast, he realized. He wanted this to be maybe a little slow. Ignoring Lochlan's complaining, he carefully maneuvered himself around. He took care that his feet and the new, unpredictable pressures on the bed from his squirming wouldn't knock the phone off its perch. Then Saxon sat down on his calves. He felt his ass tighten instinctively. He looked backwards, at his phone, tucking his chin over his left shoulder.
"Oh, my God," Lochlan whimpered. The speakers were tinny from this extended distance but Saxon felt like he was being submerged in waves of crystalline sound. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."
"Yeah?" Saxon asked, throatily.
What a strange and vulnerable position to be put in, he thought, dazed. The angle his head was in forced his mouth into a pout. And if he leaned down any further, into the bed, raising his hips, then—
"Is this it?" he asked, feeling embarrassed.
"Uh-huh," Lochlan moaned. "Oh, fuck, that's so good, I want to—I—"
Saxon couldn't help but start to rock, gently, in place. His sheets were silky against his cock, which promised to thicken once more. His head fell to his chest.
"Keep moving like that," Lochlan said, from behind him, and for a molten second Saxon was able to pretend that he was. "You're—fuck—you could go again?"
Saxon turned to look at him.
"Yeah," he admitted. His shame and want festered in his gut. It was good—maybe. It grounded him, bringing him down to earth, even through this dissociative state.
Lochlan shivered. He was close. Saxon didn't know how he knew, because he had never seen him come—not even—not even on the—and during these calls, it had always been Saxon's pleasure at stake.
Not tonight. Things had changed—as they had to, as they always did.
"Lochy," Saxon said, soothing. "You gotta—come on, let's go to sleep, you gotta finish this—"
"Not like that," Lochlan insisted. "Tell me—how you want it."
Saxon's breath bundled back into his throat, but everything else tumbled out of him quickly. His body was too loose and too relaxed from the orgasm.
"I want it," Saxon said, and then louder: "You know how bad I want it, baby. Please."
He told himself he was trying to narrow down the decisions Lochlan had to make in the next minute or so, trying to be helpful to him, encouraging him to think strongly about coming on him and manifest his goals—paint him white right there, and have it drip down his ass. Another part of Saxon wanted to laugh at himself at the words—so stylized, so studied—though, in his defence, he had learned from the best that studio-quality pornography had to offer. But then Lochlan more or less whined for him, like a little dog, and then Saxon did not feel like laughing very much at all. He arched his back—he drew Lochlan's gaze to the dip of his spine, the back of his waist. That was where he wanted him today.
"Come on, baby," Saxon murmured. His cheeks burned as he spoke. "Come all over this. Give me that fucking come."
Lochlan's little mewls—he had to know that Saxon wanted it. Because he couldn't think, at that moment, of anything he could have wanted more. He wanted to see Lochlan jerk his pretty cock and spill on his waiting body. He wanted to feel it on his back, and his ass, wanted to make Lochlan lick it up before it cooled on his skin, clean up the mess he made, lap it all up, swallow it all, drag his lips over the curve of his ass, spread his cheeks, and put his sweet tongue right where he needed him most—but also—but also—the worst of it was—
"You have to kiss me," Saxon said. His mind was blank. It was only words. "Don't forget—to kiss me."
He willed himself not to shut his eyes in embarrassment, and, in the end, he was rewarded for not turning away. Lochlan's face on his screen quickly transformed into pure bliss—not a lick of pain, or torment, or self-consciousness, or maybe there was all of it, and more, but they had just been transmuted into a luminous kind of joy. He was smiling: broad, serene, beautiful. Saxon blinked away the memory of a smile almost like that—seconds before and after a perfect, dream-like kiss that Saxon was destined to never feel pressed against his mouth ever again—a kiss that had moved clumsy desire from and to his lips, a kiss that sipped from him—nor those fingers that held, knowingly, the back of his eager, arching neck—leaving behind only an itch on his nape that never seemed to fade.
Well, whatever.
Lochlan swayed a little in his spot for a while before his eyes opened. He raised his hand up to his phone to show Saxon the proof of their hard work. There were his spindly, sticky fingers, which Saxon would have sucked dry had he been there, next to him, on his bed, knowing what he did about them now.
"If you visit me in New York," Lochlan mumbled, pink-cheeked and sleepy, "You can suck them."
It was never going to happen. Lochlan being cursed to be telepathic about Saxon's sex shit was just one of a thousand decrepit reasons why their meeting was never going to happen. Maybe a reunion, at some point, for some upsetting familial reason, was going to be unavoidable. But Saxon was pretty good at delaying the inevitable.
So, he ignored what Lochlan said, ignored the sentimental, ridiculous, unwanted possibility of flying to New York anytime soon, and taking him into his arms at JFK and smelling his hair, and touching his thigh in the cab home, and kissing him soundly against his bedroom door (the one he occasionally saw jut into his screen), kissing him until Saxon's mouth was left in total ruin. Saxon ignored this world—where, what, they lived happily ever after?—and simply brought back what had been uttered into their shared connection further into the safety of their unreal little universe.
"I will," Saxon replied, eating up Lochlan's flushed face, and falling back into the livid comforts of his fantasy. Just a while longer. He would have him be here with him for just a little longer, please. "I'll suck them, and you can use them on me—however you want—"
Lochlan hummed. When he licked his lips, clearly wanting to tease again, the tip of his tongue made a full revolution around his mouth. Saxon sat there, charmed, coiled, like a well-trained snake.
"Baby," Lochlan said, finally.
Saxon's gaze shot up.
"Baby," Lochlan said, again, a little impatient. He moved his phone from one hand to the other and then crossed his freed arm across his chest. He was waiting.
"Okay," Saxon said, slow, his voice thick, "You can use them on me, baby. However you want."
"You know what I'd do," Lochlan said, his eyes glittering. "If you ever let me. You know—you know what I'd do to you."
"I don't know, baby," Saxon murmured. "I think I want you to tell me."