It was like Art pushed all his nervous desperate energy into the kiss. His hands wandered over Selwyn’s hips and shoulders and back, and the other man was halfway through Art’s shirt buttons when he remembered that, oh, he should undo Selwyn’s buttons too. His fingers fumbled and caught as he worked through them — Art’s motions were more graceless than he remembered.

Oh, he was out of practice. He hadn’t had sex with anyone since before Desdemona’s miscarriage, and he hadn’t had sex with a man — or like this, in a flurry of motion in a back room — for even longer. He wasn’t used to this anymore. And now that he was in it it was easy to lose his second thoughts in bursts of physical feelings, easy to simplify the universe to the door at his back and Selwyn’s hips against him and to putting everything into kissing him. 

Selwyn was asking how he wanted to do this and doing something intoxicating with his fingertips. Art traced a line with his thumb down Selwyn’s chest where he’d gotten the other man’s buttons undone. He was out of practice, but he didn’t think Selwyn was — he wasn’t sure if that made this nerve wracking or more appealing. Art’s hips rocked forward. ”Fuck me,” he said softly, undoing another of Selwyn’s buttons, ”I want you to fuck me.”

---

The following 1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post:1 user Likes Arthur Pettigrew's post
   Emrys Selwyn