Author's Disclaimer #1: This story has homoerotic content and depicts sex in loving detail. If you are under 18, or offended by such things, please delete now.
Author's Disclaimer #2: The Highlander universe and everything in it belong to someone else, and I'm not making any money off of it. 'Nuff said.
This is a sequel to "Perfect" and will not make a lot of sense if you haven't read that one first. If you missed it, let me know and I'll send it along.
A special thank you to my beta reader Meg for wading through this.<g> And another thank you to Debbi for her help with the Latin.
Comments are appreciated.
A few hours later...
Duncan woke but didn't open his eyes. He was lying on his back, his arms around the person whose head was resting on his chest. He felt warm and safe and happy. His mind sleepily groped for the person's identity, but couldn't seem to grab hold of it. He opened his eyes and blinked at the harsh light streaming in through the windows. It must be about noon, he mused, they must have dozed off after...
Erotic memories of the morning's incredible events came flooding back. For a moment, shock was dominant: shock at the person's identity, shock at what he'd done, shock that he'd been a willing participant. But his mind relentlessly played back the morning's events in exquisite detail, and the shock passed bit by bit, to be replaced by warmth. Warmth at the new level of intimacy, warmth stirring in his groin in response to the memories, warmth at Methos' amazing admission. His arms tightened convulsively around Methos, waking him.
Methos inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to open his eyes, preferring to ease his way into consciousness whenever possible. His sensitive nose identified scents: the smell of sex close by, coffee farther away, and... he inhaled deeply again... Ah yes, Duncan. He stiffened. He opened his eyes slowly. That was Duncan's chest under his cheek all right, as if he could have misidentified the Highlander's unique scent. And by the sound of his breathing, he was awake. He forced his body to relax, and raised his head to look at Duncan's face, inwardly steeling himself in case Duncan was having second thoughts.
What met his gaze were warm brown eyes, and full sensual lips turned up at the corners with the beginnings of a smile.
"Morning," he said, a smile of his own playing over his mouth.
Duncan pulled Methos up to meet his kiss, soft and warm.
"Actually, it's about noon," Duncan said when the kiss finally ended.
"It's always morning when you wake up after sex," Methos replied sleepily.
"Yes. 'The Morning After,' I believe it's called." Methos scrutinized Duncan's face carefully, needing to be sure. "Any regrets this morning, Duncan?" he asked softly.
Duncan looked into Methos' eyes, marveling anew at their depth, and said, "None at all."
Methos' eyes widened almost imperceptibly at Duncan's absolute certainty, and he sought his lips again. The kiss was full of wonder and discovery.
Methos broke the kiss and rolled away from Duncan onto his back, propping himself up on an elbow to look around the loft. "So, what's your pleasure, a shower and then breakfast, or breakfast then a shower?" he asked.
When Duncan didn't answer, Methos looked at him, and had to ruthlessly suppress a burst of laughter. Duncan's eyes were roaming Methos' body hungrily. I've created a monster, he thought to himself, and tensed the muscles of his stomach. Duncan's attention was riveted. Methos began to chuckle, unable to help himself. With a low growl, Duncan reached for Methos, intent on delaying any ideas about getting out of bed at all.
Methos scrambled out of bed and out of his reach with a laugh. "No way, MacLeod. None of that 'till I've had a shower." He laughed again as he successfully dodged Duncan's lunge to retrieve him. He walked into the bathroom, turned, and stuck his head back out.
"Coming?" he asked, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. "It looks big enough for two." His mischievous laugh echoed through the loft as Duncan leapt out of bed and sprinted for the bathroom.
Once in the shower, he pushed Duncan under the shower head to wet his hair, and grabbed the shampoo bottle. Steam rose about them. He lathered Duncan's hair, standing behind him, and began a scalp massage. Centuries of practice guided his long fingers, starting at his hairline, making tiny circles. He slowly worked his way back and down, making sure to attend every inch of the Scotsman's head. Duncan gave himself to the experience totally, groaning at the skill Methos applied to his work. When he was finished, Methos guided him back under the water, and helped him rinse. Then he moved to face Duncan and was pleased to see the relaxed expression on his face.
"Very," Duncan answered, pulling Methos to him to take his lips. He moved so that the water crashed down over their heads, mouths locked together, tongues probing. Methos felt as if he were drowning in that kiss, the heat of Duncan's mouth, the heat of the water pouring over his face, the heat in his lungs as he fought the urge to breathe, prolonging the kiss. At last he broke away, gasping for breath, but Duncan was on him, pushing him backwards until he met the tiled wall. There he plundered Methos' mouth again, reveling in the total abandon that was Methos' kiss.
Finally, Duncan pulled away, both of them hard and breathing heavily from the passion in the kiss. Duncan took the soap and lathered his hands well, then handed the bar to Methos who did the same. Each soaped the other, fingers lingering in sensitive spots, hands kneading muscles as they cleaned. Each caress stimulated them further. Finally they began fondling each other's cocks, moving slowly at first, matching stroke for stroke, eyes locked. Gradually the pace picked up, and the strokes became less teasing. Faster and firmer. Firmer and faster. Finally Methos slammed Duncan back against the wall, not missing a stroke, and claimed his mouth for a deep, shattering kiss. He sucked rhythmically at Duncan's tongue, in time with their strokes, losing himself in the sensations.
Duncan climaxed, tearing his mouth from Methos' to cry out, Methos not a second behind him with his own cry of release. They leaned against each other, breathing raggedly. Duncan began to laugh in between snatches for breath. Methos pulled back a little to look at him, his face a question mark.
"Morning," Duncan said brightly, continuing to laugh.
Methos burst out laughing and agreed, "Morning indeed."
When they had recovered, and dried off, Duncan and Methos emerged from the bathroom, each wearing only a towel wrapped low on their hips. Methos walked over to the fridge, opening it, and stood there, one hand holding the door, the other arm wrapped around his chest, seemingly lost in thought. Duncan came up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin over one shoulder. Methos made a low noise in his throat and leaned into him.
"Any ideas?" Duncan asked, looking at the contents of his fridge. With Methos as a houseguest, it was crowded with beer.
"Several," Duncan said in a mock lecherous tone, while his hands did some exploring. "But they'll have to wait till later. I'm starved." His hands continued their explorations, belying his stated intention.
Methos turned in Duncan's arms and grinned. "You're insatiable." Duncan's hands began to wander further, dipping under Methos' towel. Methos shook his head in mock disappointment and sighed. "You young ones, no control, no discipline..."
Duncan laughed. "All right, all right," he said, letting go. "I can behave myself till after we eat." As Methos turned away, he yanked him back, and said in a low silky voice, "Probably."
He'd expected Methos to laugh, but instead he saw a sparkle growing in his eyes, and a speculative smile forming on his lips.
"What?" Duncan asked.
"I was just thinking that maybe we could do both at once," he said, a wickedly anticipatory look on his face.
Duncan grinned. "I'll go get an extra sheet to put on the bed."
Methos began to select items out of the fridge: some honey, fresh strawberries already washed and stemmed, real whipped cream from dessert the night before, melon balls, some thick hot fudge which he heated in the microwave, pineapple rings, and a jar of maraschino cherries. He then investigated the liquor cabinet, finally pouring an inch of Whidbey's, a boysenberry liqueur, into a small glass.
He turned to carry his loot to the bed, but stopped suddenly catching sight of Duncan lying on the bed, resplendently naked in a pose worthy of preserving in marble. One hand rested on his stomach, the other arm raised over his head and draped on the pillow he reclined against, one knee slightly bent, eyes alight with anticipation. Methos stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of him.
Then he made his way to the bed, placing his tray of goodies on the nightstand. He sat on the bed next to Duncan, reached out a long hand and selected a large strawberry. He held it between his teeth, but did not bite into it. Methos leaned down to Duncan, who stretched up to take it from him with his teeth. But when Duncan's teeth grasped the berry and their lips brushed, Methos bit down on the berry, halving it. The tangy sweetness flooded his mouth, and he wondered where on earth Duncan had found them, for they were perfectly ripe and completely out of season. He dipped a long forefinger into the whipped cream, thick and rich, and then extended it to Duncan, who wrapped his lips around it, sucking on it, tonguing the cream away. He withdrew his finger and leaned in for a slow kiss, tasting the strawberries and cream on Duncan's tongue, combined with the heady taste that was his alone. They shared more berries and more cream, interspersing this with long slow kisses, Duncan finally pulling Methos down to lie back against the headboard next to him.
Duncan selected a melon ball, and Methos opened his mouth to take it, but Duncan merely brushed Methos' lips with the juice before placing it lightly on Methos' chest. With the flat of his hand, Duncan crushed the melon ball and smeared the pulp and juice around on his chest. He looked up at Methos then and caught his puzzled expression. Never breaking eye contact, Duncan extended his tongue, and tasted the fruit on Methos' chest. Involuntarily Methos touched his own tongue to his lips as he watched, and the juice there made it seem that he was tasting with Duncan's tongue, as he continued to lap at his chest.
Methos reached for the glass of Whidbey's, and took a small sip, holding the liquid in his mouth and crooking a finger at Duncan. When Duncan kissed him, he opened to his tongue and shared the sweet fiery liquid with him. The kiss lasted longer than the liqueur and was both hotter and sweeter.
Methos anointed each of Duncan's nipples with a dab of the thick whipped cream, and then gradually licked it off while he teased them with lips, teeth, and tongue in to hard hot points. Then Methos sat up and selected a pineapple ring. With one hand he grasped Duncan's erection, and pulled it back so that it stood upright. With the other hand, he eased the pineapple ring down onto the straining shaft, letting it come to rest near the base. He reached for the whipped cream and caught the question on Duncan's face. "Dessert," he said, with a sly smile. Duncan chuckled in response.
Methos spread a layer of whipped cream onto the pineapple ring, and then used his fingers to smear Duncan's cock thickly, using the lightest of pressures to tantalize. He then took the hot fudge, thick but warm and pourable, and drizzled it over the whipped cream. When he'd finished, he looked up a Duncan. "What do you think?" he asked.
"I think it looks good enough to eat," Duncan said, he voice low, suggestive.
"What a coincidence," Methos responded. "That's exactly what I had in mind.
Methos moved Duncan's thighs apart with a light touch and bent to his task. He began by cleaning up some errant globs of whipped cream which had somehow landed on Duncan's balls. He bathed them with long sweeps of his whole tongue, licking and licking until he could be sure that he had gotten every bit. Then he nibbled at the pineapple ring, being sure to pull at it so that it moved on Duncan's cock. He nibbled away at it until it finally gave way and he drew the remainder into his mouth, chewing happily.
He then began making long sweeps up Duncan's straining shaft, gathering whipped cream and the thick hot fudge as he went, avoiding the head completely. The hot fudge clung to the roof of his mouth, it's rich bittersweet flavor melting slowly as he continued to gather the cream. When the thick shaft was reasonably clean, he nibbled along it, occasionally sucking on it in places. Methos used his tongue in a quick fluttering motion from side to side across the ridge on the underside of Duncan's cock, drawing a delighted sigh with this "butterfly flick."
Finally he pulled Duncan's cock back with a hand so that it again stood upright. He took the entire head into his mouth all at once, sucking the whipped cream off, and rubbing his tongue against it to remove the hot fudge. Even after all of it was gone, he continued to suck on it rhythmically, fluttering with his tongue. He stroked up and down with his hand in time with his sucking. Finally he moved so that his tongue rubbed against the highly sensitive fold of skin on the underside just behind the head again and again. Duncan began to squirm under him, grabbing big handfuls of the sheet, clenching his fists. Methos was relentless, mouth, tongue, and hand all moving in unison, the pace gradually accelerating, sucking and pumping and licking more and more strongly. With a strangled cry, Duncan came, pulsing in Methos' mouth.
When he could breathe again, Duncan drew Methos up to him for a long slow kiss. The mingled flavors of the fruit, the cream, the chocolate, and himself, were intoxicating, and he delved into them with his tongue with abandon. Without breaking the kiss, he turned them both so that Methos was lying on his back and Duncan was leaning over him.
At last Duncan pulled back and in a voice rippling with amusement, said, "My turn." He sat up and surveyed the tray. He selected the honey, and meticulously anointed each of Methos' nipples, and laid down a line of honey from the hollow of Methos' throat to his navel. Duncan leaned over Methos, making his tongue into a point, touched it delicately to a nipple just once, tasting its sweet sticky flavor, then he did the same to the other nipple. He continued, moving back and forth between them, licking with his strong tongue, kissing with his full lips, scraping with his sharp teeth. When the last of the honey was removed from Methos' nipples, and those small circles of flesh were tight and hard, Duncan finally moved to the hollow of Methos' throat. He lapped at the small pool of honey there, and followed the line he had drawn down Methos' chest. He paused when he passed between the nipples to fasten his mouth to each, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around them. He returned to the line, following it down over Methos' stomach to his navel, where his tongue darted in, retrieving the sweet nectar there.
Thinking to make his own dessert, Duncan took the whipped cream and dabbed it on and around Methos' erect cock where it was pressed against his stomach. He then took several strawberries, taking the time to dip them in the hot fudge, and strategically placed them along either side of Methos' cock. He dipped the last strawberry in the hot fudge, dabbed it with whipped cream, and popped the whole thing into Methos' mouth.
Methos sighed as he chewed, lost in the flavors. Finally Duncan selected a maraschino cherry, and placed it, somewhat indecently, on the whipped cream just above the tip of Methos' cock.
Duncan inhaled deeply as he hovered over his "dessert," thinking that the scent reminded him of maltshops from the '50s. Except, he grinned to himself, nothing remotely like this had been on the menu then. He bent to his task eagerly, taking up the strawberries with his teeth, savoring the blending of the flavors in his mouth as the juice flowed down his throat. He swept the thick whipped cream into his mouth with his tongue, making long swipes against Methos' flesh, gradually working his way up from the base of Methos' cock. When he reached the head, he delicately picked up the cherry and, making sure Methos was watching him, took it, stem and all, into his mouth. Within seconds, the cherry was gone, and Duncan produced the cherry stem, now sporting two tight knots. Methos' eyebrows raised both in appreciation of the trick, and anticipation at what such a talented tongue might do to him.
Duncan licked up the last of the whipped cream, and took Methos' cock into his mouth. He started sucking, moving his head in a slight in and out motion, pumping his hand, wrapped firmly about the base of Methos' cock. His tongue worked furiously, moving against it in first one spot, and then another.
Methos struggled to hold onto his control, willing himself to wait because he didn't want the delicious sensations to end. But then Duncan began to hum softly, just a very low frequency rumble, never letting up with his lips and tongue. The low noise set up minute vibrations in Methos' cock. Methos' breath caught in his throat as the unexpected sensation, his eyes popped open, his fingers dug into the covers beneath him, as he struggled vainly to maintain his control. Finally, losing it totally, he sucked air into his lungs and howled his release, pushing his cock deeper into Duncan's mouth as he spurted wildly.
When Methos finally quieted, Duncan moved to lie next to him. Methos turned toward him and, wrapping their arms tightly about one another, they kissed. Long minutes later they moved apart and discovered that they were both seriously sticky.
"Looks like we need another shower," Duncan said with a grin, waggling his eyebrows up and down.
Methos laughed, "Okay, I'll race you," and made as if to move away.
Duncan pulled him back against him. "In a little while," he said, bending to claim his lips again.
A few hours later still...
They were both finally clean and at least partly dressed, Duncan in a pair of sweats, Methos in a t-shirt and boxers. They had been talking since they'd finally gotten out of bed. They had discussed all manner of things, minor philosophical points, chess as a metaphor for war, and the question of whether history was cyclic or linear. Their current topic was the role of the Church in preserving the written word after the fall of the Roman Empire. They were disagreeing about it, much the same way they had about all the others.
"But didn't they then have a responsibility to teach the peasants in the surrounding countryside? While they were busy preserving, didn't they have a duty to extend that knowledge to those less fortunate?" Duncan asked, making a point.
"Why?" Methos responded curiously.
"What do you mean 'why'?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"Most of the 'peasants,' as you call them, were too busy worrying about surviving the winter, to bemoan the fact that they couldn't read. Time spent in lessons would have been seen as time lost from more important things." Methos said reasonably.
Duncan shook his head slowly. "I still think that..."
"Of course you do," Methos interrupted. At Duncan's surprised look, he smiled. "You were raised to be a clan chieftain, to always think of clan welfare before all else. You were a boyscout before there were such things." He sighed dramatically. "I've almost despaired of ever curing you," he said with a martyr's air.
Duncan laughed. "Well, you're welcome to give it your best shot for as long as you like, but I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."
Methos smiled at that, his face almost wistful for a moment, but clearing quickly to an expression of benign amusement. Then he changed the subject. "So, what are we doing for dinner?" he asked.
"I thought we'd go out."
"What? The boyscout isn't prepared? I'm shocked."
"No," Duncan laughed. "The boyscout just doesn't feel like cooking."
Dinner was marvelous. They went to a little Italian place on the waterfront. It was a quietly elegant place that took pride in it's excellent service. The night had an almost magical quality about it. They were seated by the window where they could look out over the water at the last remnant of daylight fading over the islands.
Duncan, however, spent most of his time watching Methos. He had foregone his usual grad student attire in favor of casual elegance for the evening. He was wearing a royal blue silk shirt tucked into dark gray chinos, and for once had even left his ubiquitous boots at home, choosing a pair of gray loafers. The silk shirt clung to him as he moved, and Duncan could see the delicious hollow at the base of his throat where the shirt's top few buttons had been left undone, hinting at other hidden delights.
Methos was trying to absorb himself in the vista offered by the window. He knew that if he spent too much time looking at Duncan, the urge to reach out and undo the hair tie restraining his dark locks, bury his hands in them, and dive into the sweetness of Duncan's lips, would be too much for him.
The food was wonderful, both of them choosing light pasta dishes, and the wine expertly chosen to compliment the meal. When the waiter asked if they'd like dessert, their eyes met and Duncan told him with a smile that they'd already had dessert. When he'd gone, Methos reached out and lightly brushed the back of Duncan's hand with a fingertip. The touch was electric.
"Time to go," Methos said quietly, and Duncan nodded.
When they arrived home, Methos perused Duncan's collection of classical music. Although he liked to listen to more modern music, he did know a great deal about classical music, and made selections which were both among his favorites, and which reflected his mood. He then programmed Duncan's impressive stereo to play the pieces in a specific order. The sweet tones of his first selection, Haydn's "Serenade" flowed softly out of the speakers, and Methos smiled. He joined Duncan on the couch and saw that Duncan had set out a chilled bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes on the coffee table. On closer inspection, he noted that the vintage was a good one, a very good one, and that the glasses were crystal. Duncan was pulling out all the stops.
Methos quirked an eyebrow at Duncan. "Are we celebrating something?"
"Yes," Duncan replied, with conviction.
"Oh? And what might that be?" Methos asked, his voice low and silky.
Duncan smiled. "Us," he said simply, pouring for them both.
Methos raised his glass. "To our friendship, then," he said, moving to touch his glass to Duncan's.
"No," Duncan said quickly, pulling his glass out of reach. "To us," he stated firmly, locking eyes with Methos.
Methos inclined his head slightly in acceptance, never breaking eye contact. "To us," he said solemnly, his eyes shining. Their glasses clinked, the crystal chiming sweetly, and they each took the ceremonial sip. Then that marvelous smile. Duncan found himself grinning back foolishly.
They sat back, sipping their champagne, each leaning back against an arm of the couch looking at each other, the silence expectant.
"What happens now?" Duncan asked quietly.
"Now?" Methos echoed, puzzled.
"Yeah, what happens now with us?"
"Oh," Methos said with mischief dancing in his eyes. "Well, I thought we'd finish the champagne, and then..."
"Don't joke, Methos," Duncan interrupted. "I'm serious."
Methos studied his face and then replied, "Yes, I think you are..." He was quiet for a moment, and then gently asked, "What do you want to happen now?"
They both drank more of the champagne while Duncan thought it over. The first strains of Puccini's "O Mio Babbino Caro" swelled from the speakers, the romantically haunting melody filling the silence. "I want us to be together," he said finally. "I don't want this to end."
"Then it won't end," Methos responded quietly.
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes," Methos answered simply.
Duncan smiled. Then his face grew puzzled. "But how..."
Methos raised a hand to stop him. "I don't know. If we want to be together we'll find a way, of that I'm sure. But tonight... I don't want to agonize over details tonight. Those can come later." Gold-green eyes locked on dark brown. "Tonight is just for us, what do you say?" he asked, deep voice rich with promise.
Duncan nodded and took a quick sip of the champagne, his mouth suddenly dry.
Methos downed the rest of his glass and rose fluidly. Duncan made as if to rise also, but Methos gestured for him to sit back and relax. He retrieved a bottle of massage oil from the bathroom and put it in some water on the stove to warm. The slow measured tones of Bach's "Air for the G String" filled the loft, the strings conveying a yearning through the peaceful melody. Methos then moved about the room lighting candles and dousing lights. Duncan watched him as he went, marveling at his unconscious athletic grace, the way all his movements seemed to blend seamlessly together, smoothly woven from one to the next, almost like a dance. Methos filled a liquid potpourri pot with a mixture of raspberry and almond oils, and lit the candle beneath to heat it. He spread a sheet over the bed to protect the bedding. Methos tested the temperature of the oil, and then placed it on the nightstand.
He finally returned to Duncan and held out a long hand to him, his eyes extending an invitation. Duncan took the hand and stood, setting his glass on the coffee table as he rose. They stood looking at one another for a long moment, the intensity in Methos' eyes making Duncan's throat tighten. Then Methos kissed him softly, more a brushing of lips than a touch.
Methos led Duncan to the bed. He gently removed Duncan's clothing, his fingers lingering on his skin as he bared it. When he was finished, Duncan reached for him, but Methos stopped him and told him to lie on his stomach on the bed. A question formed on his face, and Methos kissed him before it could escape his lips. He urged Duncan onto the bed with his hands, murmuring reassurances as he did so.
He removed his own clothing quickly as Duncan finally relaxed onto the bed, and retrieved the massage oil. The stereo began the next programmed selection, Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini, 18th Variation," a piano concerto. The sweeping romantic melody flowed out of the speakers and seemed to surround them. Methos oiled his thighs, and then drizzled oil on Duncan's feet and calves, the scent of sandalwood from the warmed oil rising to combine with the fruity potpourri. He took one foot in his oily hands and began to massage the sole with his thumbs, at times pressing deeply, at others merely stroking. His fingers traced the lines of the bones on the top of the foot, a feather-light touch that made Duncan shiver. Methos moved to the other foot and repeated his motions, working to relax the muscles, then lingering to tantalize.
He moved to Duncan's calves, massaging the strong muscles there with his palms, working them until there was not the slightest bit of tension left. Then his touch altered, becoming gentle, teasing, as he caressed Duncan's ankle and swept his fingertips up the insides of his calves to the hollow behind the knee, where he traced tiny circles on that sensitive spot.
Methos drizzled oil onto Duncan's thighs and buttocks, and moved to straddle his calves. He worked one thigh and then the other, kneading deeply then caressing lightly, tracing an intricate pattern along the inner thigh. Duncan sighed heavily under the ministrations of the skilled hands. He continued to his buttocks, pausing to move Duncan's thighs together, then moving forward to rest at the back of his knees. He followed his own now familiar pattern, using strong pressure to relax, then the lightest of touches to stimulate.
He began to work Duncan's back, first oiling the broad expanse, and moving to sit on Duncan's upper thighs. He worked in sections, relaxing and teasing each before moving on to the next. The movement of his hands and arms translated back so that his thighs, balls, and now-erect penis moved against Duncan's thighs and firm backside minutely, the head nudging his cheeks apart ever so slightly. The evidence of Methos' arousal sent a responsive chord through Duncan's own groin. Methos worked the shoulders strongly, removing a knot there before caressing them gently. He moved Duncan's hair aside in order to manipulate his neck, now astride his lower back.
When Methos finished, he lifted his weight off of Duncan, shifted to one side, and had him roll onto his back. Beethoven's "'Moonlight' Sonata" began, the serene yet powerfully moving melody building to fill the loft. He straddled his stomach, keeping his weight off of him, and touched his fingertips to Duncan's forehead just below the hairline. He traced gentle circles, smoothing the tension from Duncan's brow. He patiently attended every part of Duncan's face, spending long minutes massaging his temples, the space between his eyebrows, his cheekbones, and his jawline.
He shifted down further, pausing to oil his hands, and kneaded the muscles in Duncan's arms. He worked his way down to each hand, massaging the palm, lightly caressing the bones and the sides of the fingers. He continued to Duncan's chest, and his erection pressed against Duncan's, rubbing against it ever so lightly. He massaged Duncan's pects, teased his responsive nipples into tight knots. Lower still, he traced the lines of Duncan's taught stomach muscles with a light touch.
Methos moved again, this time lying between Duncan's legs, propped up on his elbows, and finally began stroking Duncan's cock. Duncan groaned as Methos bent to take him into his mouth, the wet heat and the expert tongue combining to tease and tantalize. Methos pumped the base of Duncan's cock with a hand, alternating a light touch with stronger squeezes.
Methos drizzled the still-warm oil over Duncan's balls with his free hand, coating them liberally, never letting up on his cock. He then slipped the hand between Duncan's legs, caressing his balls, squeezing them gently, his fingers becoming very oily. His fingers slipped lower, lingering on the sensitive skin just behind his balls, before moving to brush the pursed ring lower still. He traced around it, pausing to stimulate the nerve clusters on either side gently, then rimming lightly. He slipped an oily fingertip inside and turned it slowly first one way and then the other, applying gentle friction. Duncan moaned softly. He pushed the finger farther inside, slowly, slowly, making the sensation of penetration last. Duncan gave a groaning "Ohh," and his breath came faster now.
Methos withdrew, and then introduced a second finger, stretching him as he stimulated, all the while continuing his manipulation of Duncan's cock. When his fingers were both inside, he turned them slowly, Duncan moaning and squirming a little. His fingertips found the round hardness of the prostate, nudging it first gently, then a little more firmly. Duncan's eyes flew open, exclaiming at the totally unexpected sensation which somehow added to his arousal. Methos was stoking the fires, but keeping control of it so that Duncan approached the edge but wasn't carried over it, reaching new heights.
Methos withdrew his mouth and hands, and Duncan protested. He moved to kiss him briefly, and caught Duncan's eyes with his own. Duncan saw a question there, and anticipation, colored only a little by fear, flashed through him. He nodded, and then asked, "What should I..."
Methos kissed him again, hard, interrupting him. "I'll show you," he assured.
Duncan expected Methos to roll him onto his stomach, but he stayed between his legs, drizzling more oil onto his cock, making sure it was thoroughly lubricated. He brought Duncan's knees up, placing one ankle over each shoulder, and straightened up, lifting his hips off of the bed. He tested the passage once more, making sure it was ready for him, and then pushed slowly at the entrance with his cock, his eyes locked on Duncan's. He stopped with just the head of his cock inside and waited for Duncan to adjust to him. When his face cleared, Methos pushed forward a couple of inches, Duncan moaning with pleasure in response. He withdrew a little and pushed forward again, continuing the withdrawal and advance until he was buried within Duncan completely.
"Una sumus," he whispered.
Duncan's eyes widened slightly. We are one, his mind translated the Latin as Ravel's "Bolero" slowly swelled around them. The building theme seemed to recall Spanish dancers and Bedouin tents, the smell of incense and the taste of pomegranate.
Methos began to pump slowly, holding on to his control tightly, wanting this to be as much pleasure for Duncan as for him. He grasped Duncan's cock with a slick hand, pumping it in time with his own strokes. Duncan groaned, flexing his buttocks to push himself into Methos' hand, contracting around his cock in the process. Duncan smiled at his gasp of pleasure.
Methos maintained his slow rhythm, his strokes stronger now in time with the music which seemed to be coming from the air itself, pushing forward into Duncan on the down beat. Ravel's haunting melody washed over them as it built gradually toward it's climax, sweeping around and through them so that it seemed it was they who were creating the music with their intimate dance.
Finally the double stimulation was too much for Duncan, and he came crying out "Methos!" in ragged tones as the intense orgasm set off cascades of sensation throughout his body. Hearing Duncan call his name, Methos plunged over the edge himself.
When they had finally quieted, Methos withdrew as gently as he could manage, and moved to lie beside Duncan. Duncan turned toward him and touched Methos' face, his hand trembling, wonder written on his face. Methos smiled, captured Duncan's hand and kissed the palm.
They kissed, lips gentle, tongues caressing. Duncan pulled away, finally, to look at Methos, his dark eyes intense.
"Tu meus," he said, his voice full of awe, almost a question. You are mine.
Methos nodded, his eyes never leaving Duncan's. "Ego tuus," he affirmed. I am yours.
"I love you," Duncan whispered fiercely.
Methos pulled Duncan to him and sought his lips in answer.
They lay together, Duncan eventually moving to tuck Methos' head under his chin, holding each other for a long while.
"How long, what?"
Shyly, "How long have you... wanted this?"
A smile. "I think I was lost the moment I met you."
"But you said nothing..."
"You didn't see me that way. What could I do but wait?"
"Until yesterday I didn't think that this was possible, that we were possible. But I woke up to find you watching me, and suddenly a whole world opened up before me." A caress. "Such a gift you've made me."
"I'm glad you were so patient."
"Patience yields its own rewards."
A smile. "I thought that was virtue."
A chuckle. "I love you, Methos."
"And I you, MacLeod. And I you."