Jonathan Sims

Martin kisses him, slowly, gently; Martin kisses him, warm and close. Martin kisses him like he's the only thing that matters (and he is). He echoes the hum with one of his own, an answer and an invitation, yes, you, this. He lets his weight shift; he lets his body down, curled up alongside John's, pressed to the long line of him. One arm fits neatly around the small of John's back, hands close, holding him steady. He does not stop kissing him.

Martin meets him with gratitude and with care, with humor, with playfulness, with wonder and devotion, with deepest sincerity and above all, with trust. He whispers, "I love you," to John's lips, because there are no other words. He lets his forehead come to rest against John's, their noses brushing, a small, astonished smile touching his lips. He never thought he would be so happy and he never thought he would bear it with such grace. "I love you."

He isn't finished with the massage, does not want to indicate that he is. He stays there a moment, but his hand wanders up toward John's shoulder, gentle but intent. A soft nudge is all, a suggestion of more, if John is ready.