Sean licked his lips, then gave a little nod. He'd never felt so utterly fucked in his life, and his body jumped away from Christian's fingers as the other man slid his hands up, possessed him with kisses and touched and tiny bites. Christian was rough, and that was what he needed right now--not because Viggo couldn't be rough, but because deep inside him he felt guilty, deeply, painfully guilty.
His relationship with Viggo was now well known, but had Christian been single, like him, Sean would have been with him in a heartbeat--open, and years ago, and maybe it would have ended in a blizzard and a disaster, like Sean's other marriages. Maybe Christian would have gotten bored with him. Sean couldn't have given him a lovely daughter, and he wouldn't have had his own beautiful daughter either. Would his life have been better? He didn't know.
Sean raised his head quietly, and made a soft promise.
"He can worry all he likes. I won't phone him 'less I have yer permission to. Alright? I'm all fer you, Christian, and Viggo can wait."
He took a deep breath, and knew it was a lie; of course he'd phone Viggo. In fact, an idea was beginning to form in his head now, and his lips curled a little as he thought about it. He looked up, smiled, and lay his head quietly against Christian's shoulder.
"All yours."
So was it any surprise, really, when Sean took the first opportunity he could to phone Viggo?
Christian was on the phone to his wife, and Sean picked up the phone as gently as he could, dialling out. He lay back in bed, exhausted from a long morning, come dried and sticky on his stomach, stinking of sweat and sex and strawberry, from the squirty, sticky food paint they'd found in the bedside cabinet.
Sean tilted his head back and listened to the phone ring. Quietly he hoped Viggo wasn't in, or had his head buried in a painting or behind a camera and wouldn't come to the phone, that his answering machine would pick up and he could leave a brief message to stop him from worrying.
Because if Viggo picked up, the explanation would be a bitch.
no subject
His relationship with Viggo was now well known, but had Christian been single, like him, Sean would have been with him in a heartbeat--open, and years ago, and maybe it would have ended in a blizzard and a disaster, like Sean's other marriages. Maybe Christian would have gotten bored with him. Sean couldn't have given him a lovely daughter, and he wouldn't have had his own beautiful daughter either. Would his life have been better? He didn't know.
Sean raised his head quietly, and made a soft promise.
"He can worry all he likes. I won't phone him 'less I have yer permission to. Alright? I'm all fer you, Christian, and Viggo can wait."
He took a deep breath, and knew it was a lie; of course he'd phone Viggo. In fact, an idea was beginning to form in his head now, and his lips curled a little as he thought about it. He looked up, smiled, and lay his head quietly against Christian's shoulder.
"All yours."
So was it any surprise, really, when Sean took the first opportunity he could to phone Viggo?
Christian was on the phone to his wife, and Sean picked up the phone as gently as he could, dialling out. He lay back in bed, exhausted from a long morning, come dried and sticky on his stomach, stinking of sweat and sex and strawberry, from the squirty, sticky food paint they'd found in the bedside cabinet.
Sean tilted his head back and listened to the phone ring. Quietly he hoped Viggo wasn't in, or had his head buried in a painting or behind a camera and wouldn't come to the phone, that his answering machine would pick up and he could leave a brief message to stop him from worrying.
Because if Viggo picked up, the explanation would be a bitch.