This story is rated NC-17 for adult content, including the graphic description of homoerotic sex. If you are under the age of 18 (and do not have your parents' consent... uh-huh, sure. No, no... I believe you), or if the loving depiction of consensual M/M sex does not appeal to you, PLEASE turn back now. You have been warned. If you persist in reading this despite my warning, don't come crying to me if you get offended. You know if you should be here or not.
Methos, Duncan, and the concept of Immortality are the property of someone else with more lawyers than me. I claim no ownership, no money... Just for fun, eh? I promise to return the guys relatively unharmed when I am done with them. Ice cubes are the sole creation and property of the Divine Creator, and are used with permission (hey, all acts of love and pleasure, you know?) No ice cubes were harmed in the writing of this story.
Special thanks to my Beloved Beta-readers(tm) Juanita, Methosgrrl (it's not her fault), and Tuckerlair. Any correct spelling, grammar, punctuation, or continuity you find herein is entirely their fault (despite what Methosgrrl says). All mistakes are, of course, my own. Mea culpa.
This little romp is dedicated with all due love and affection to my dear friend Brenda, and the Spiritual Retreat of her green sofa, where so many of my best scenes have been composed. I miss you, Brenda, 250 miles is too far. Greensleeves will always be in D minor for you.
This is a sequel to Popsicle.
The heatwave was both unseasonable and stubbornly persistent, lingering along the Seacouver coast like an unwelcome guest. Even the rainstorm of the previous night had failed to to banish the heat, instead pushing the following afternoon's oppressive weather to new levels of misery. The resulting humidity clamped down on the city, transforming what had been merely an oven into a sweltering stewpot as the heat index rose.
The air in the loft was heavy and sluggish, moving only reluctantly under the coaxing of inadequate oscillating fans positioned around the room. Duncan MacLeod sighed and shifted uncomfortably against the hot leather upholstery of his couch. Every surface was damp and sticky from the moisture in the air, and the sofa cushions were no exception. The only thing keeping the leather from adhering to his back was that he was far too sweaty to give the upholstery a secure grip. He sighed again.
"This is ridiculous. How many times can they fix one part? The repairman has already been out here twice! Twice in ten days to fix the same stupid thing." MacLeod might have paced, but the effort of moving through the simmering air didn't seem worth the minimal satisfaction it would have given him. He slid down the couch to a relatively dry cushion instead.
A tired voice drifted from behind the kitchen counter. "They will fix it as many times as they can bill you for, Mac. I told you to go with another company. Come on, listen to the name of it: Jose's Air Conditioning Barn and Taxi Service. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence in the consumer."
"Every other repair shop was booked for a month. Life was simpler before air conditioners were invented." MacLeod craned his neck around toward the counter. "Hey, Methos..." He blinked in surprise at the apparently empty kitchen. "Where did you go?"
"I thought the floor might be cooler," Methos replied with a grunt. His dark, sweat-soaked head appeared over the counter's edge. "I was wrong." He pulled two beers and a large bowl of ice cubes from the refrigerator, and padded across the open space to sprawl bonelessly into the chair opposite MacLeod. He handed a beer to Mac, opening his own with a practiced motion of the supple wrist. His long fingers lifted an ice cube from the bowl.
Methos took a long swallow of his own beer, and began idly stroking the melting ice cube across his wrists. "You know, life was simpler before climate control, but it was also a lot sweatier. Thanks, but I'll keep my modern conveniences, repair bills and all."
MacLeod glared at him irritatedly. "Easy for you to say, since it's not your bill."
"Nice the way that works out, isn't it?" Methos grinned smugly.
The ice cube made it's melty way up the lean arms to the crook of Methos' elbows, and from there to the long neck. Mac stared fascinatedly at the gleaming wet trails left in the ice's wake. Methos craned his head to one side and then the other, stroking the ice along the big veins in his throat. Droplets of water dribbled freely over the prominent collarbones before disappearing under the collar of the damp t-shirt. One clear, crystalline drop clung to the flushed hollow of Methos' throat where the span of his collarbones met. Mac's breathing came quick and shallow as his eyes followed the shining path of droplets, noting the slight reddening of the fair skin where the ice had touched it. His hand tightened unconsciously on the neck of the beer bottle.
Methos sighed and removed his wet fingers from the nape of his neck. The ice was gone. "Well, that was fun while it lasted." He reached for another cube.
The piece of ice was trailed slowly over Methos' forehead, the melt dripping down the sharp nose as he leaned his head down into the cold caress, turning his face sensuously against the ice, distributing the cool touch as widely as possible. Mac's hand clenched and relaxed on the slippery neck of the beer bottle in time to the easy stroking of the ice across Methos' skin.
Methos looked up, his grin pure mischief. "Pity you let Amanda eat the last Popsicle."
Mac blushed, embarrassed to be caught staring, but aroused at the invitation in his friend's eyes. He took a drink from his beer and tried to regain some of his composure. "We can always go to the store," he countered.
Methos rose from the chair in one smooth motion, collecting the bowl of ice and kneeling in front of the sofa. He placed a cool, wet hand on Duncan's thigh. "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary..."
Mac's breath caught in his throat at Methos' bold move. It was not that Methos never initiated sex between them, because he did, although rarely. It was more the manner of the invitation that threw Mac off balance. Methos was usually more reserved... less insistent about his own desires. He was aware that Mac was new to this type of relationship, and had said before that he would let MacLeod set the pace of their explorations together.
Mac's gaze never left Methos' face as the older man's thin, saturated t-shirt was stripped off and discarded, revealing the sleek, flushed chest and narrow waist. Mac had long since discarded the dubious modesty of his soaked t-shirt to the demands of the rising heat. He smiled in anticipation. If they were doomed to be sweaty and tired anyway, might as well make it for a good purpose.
Methos saw the gleam of desire and anticipation in Duncan's eyes, and reached to get another ice cube from the bowl.
The fresh ice cube was lifted directly to Methos' mouth, the cold shape moving slickly between his lips, bathing his teeth and tongue with delicious moisture. He swallowed against the faintly sweet melt collecting in his cheeks, feeling the cool water coating his dry throat.
He watched Duncan watching him as he adjusted his position between the Scot's knees. Mac's eyes were dark with desire, his breathing tightly controlled as though inhalation were a conscious effort. Methos slid his hands further up the dark thighs, still working the dwindling chunk of ice in his mouth with deliberate sensuousness.
Duncan groaned and shifted against the cushions, spreading his knees wider in invitation. It was almost too much for Methos to resist, his own need already a tight, demanding ache in his chest and groin. He loved this part of the game. He relished the tease, the slow extension of anticipation, the agonizing rise of desire and need until control was a hair's breadth from snapping and release was only a kiss, a touch away.
He wanted Mac to squirm, begging for his touch.
The last of the ice was melted and swallowed away. Methos licked his lips, almost able to taste the salt on Duncan's skin. The powerful thighs trembled under his hands, hot and damp, the subtle nap of coarse hairs teasing his palms as he stroked the heated skin in random patterns.
It was the deep, uneven breath that shuddered through Duncan's broad chest, and the quick, stealing touch of the pink tongue on that full lower lip that was nearly Methos' undoing.
"Methos..." Mac moaned.
No. Today there would be only two suitable uses of that exquisite mouth, only one of which required the use of vocal cords. The speaking of actual words was not an ability Methos cared to have the Highlander demonstrate. Moaning, groaning, screaming, sighing, sobbing... these were approved noises. Yes, the giving of pleasure or the vocal expression of it, this was all that was expected of MacLeod's mouth today. So before Mac could continue, Methos silenced him in the most expedient way he could think of.
Methos' mouth was cold and wet against Duncan's, pressing, nipping, softly demanding. And Duncan gave it, everything that Methos was asking of him and more. He groaned, arching into the kiss, opening his mouth to the tender, hungry invasion of lips and tongue. The world faded under the soft insistence of those elegant lips, that velvet tongue. Duncan closed his eyes, yielding himself to the kiss. He lost himself in the touch of mouth and hands, savoring the slight, earthy aftertaste of Methos' beer.
By the time they moved apart, released from the intimate clutch of mouths, Duncan was more than a little wild with desire and anticipation, unable to form a complete thought, much less find breath to put behind the words. He panted, pushing the hot, heavy air in and out of his lungs with labored gasps. The heated leather upholstery clung stickily to Duncan's back as Methos touched his chest, exploring with firm, knowing fingers. Oh, God, yes... Duncan wanted those slender hands on his body, craved them the way he needed food and drink. Their essentialness to his continued survival wasn't questioned.
During the brief time they had been lovers, Duncan had learned that Methos was like no other partner he'd ever had. The old Immortal was almost always willing to wait for Mac to initiate sex between them, but once that first move was made, Methos responded with an enthusiastic abandon and gentle skill that left Mac gasping. He had not-infrequently wondered what sort of incubus he had invited into his bed.
Unless Duncan indicated a clear desire to the contrary, Methos was always slow to approach the more traditionally erogenous areas of the body. Instead he had a talent for conjuring hotpoints of arousal wherever his fingertips happened to be resting, as though he could magically draw the nerves to the skin's surface. Duncan vividly recalled one long night when Methos had brought him to the edge of orgasm by doing nothing more than massaging his feet. Ever since then, Mac had made a special point to go barefoot around Methos whenever practical.
And now, Mac sweated and moaned, sliding down on the wet leather cushions as Methos traced the muscles in his chest and abdomen. His need was like a separate living thing now, distinct and independent from him, twisting inside him and screaming for satisfaction. Duncan wanted to yield to it, wanted to strip off his shorts and urge Methos down. He could almost feel the moist heat of that beautiful mouth closing around him. The need twisted again at that thought, spiking through his body and tightening the ache of his desire.
Duncan bit his lip and whimpered softly, gripping the cushion in a fierce attempt to salvage some vestige of control. Besides, he knew it would be better if he waited. Methos' attentions were always worth the wait.
Methos resisted the urge to smile. Duncan was showing remarkable restraint, but if he wasn't careful he would either tear the leather or sever his lip. It was time to push a little and see what happened. Methos reached beside his knees to the dish of ice on the floor. The ice cubes were quickly becoming ice water, but there were enough large chunks left for his purposes.
Duncan trembled and tried to flinch away from the contact as Methos applied the ice to the shadowy veins in Mac's wrist. Methos held the hand firmly, permitting no resistance, no refusal of this chill caress. When the golden skin began to redden, and the restless shifting against the cushions took on an uncomfortable posture, Methos moved the dwindling piece of ice to the next sensitive grouping of exposed veins on the Highlander's arm.
Methos practically had to sit across Duncan's lap to hold him still as the ice was touched to the soft inside of the elbow joint. Mac moaned and shifted, wiggling down on the sofa, pressing up with his hips in an attempt to reach Methos.
Methos just smiled and held him still, reaching a hand down for more ice. Oh, this was a treat, to have Duncan like this, willing and responsive, panting with a low, gasping moan. Not quite a whimper, not yet. Methos could fix that if he wanted to. He could make Mac cry from frustrated arousal, make the brawny warrior beg for release. But he wouldn't. Methos already had what he wanted most: Duncan's surrender, his trust. Any other desires he might be harboring could wait until Mac was ready to help him satisfy them.
Mac hissed and squirmed as Methos trailed the fresh ice across the breadth of his collarbones and over his chest, leaving behind wet, silvery paths. A puff of air across the cold lines of moisture coaxed a groan and another sinuous movement from the captive Highlander. Panting and groaning, Duncan nearly came off the couch when Methos touched the dripping, crystalline ice to the hardened nubs of Mac's nipples, but it was the cool breath Methos blew across the wet, ice-teased points that made him cry out.
Duncan's control was slipping. Perfect. Enough was enough. Methos' pulse was a heavy throbbing in his temples as he slid the chunk of ice into his mouth and reached for the band of Mac's shorts.
"Yes..." Duncan breathed through barely parted lips, at last releasing his desperate clutch on the upholstery to urge Methos to go faster. The pleading length of flesh was freed at last, hot and moist, bouncing slightly in time to Mac's pulse. Methos swallowed around the ice in his mouth, resisting the need to touch the newly exposed skin, to abandon his teasing and surrender to the building sense of urgency.
Instead he leaned up again for a kiss, pushing the ice into Duncan's mouth. Mac accepted it, looking slightly surprised and just a little apprehensive as Methos again slid down the moist length of his body.
Methos caught the dark, slightly glazed eyes as he hesitated, easing a cool breath over the straining erection. He couldn't wait too long, or his mouth would warm up again, but the look of complete surrender, the undisguised pleading in Mac's eyes was dizzying. His tongue flicked out, both a tease and a warning. His mouth was very cold.
Duncan's jaw worked frantically around the ice cube Methos had given him, the intense cold burning his tongue. What was this sadistic old man doing? Surely he wasn't going to...
//Oh, God.// Mac sucked an uneven breath as Methos' freezing mouth engulfed him. The world dwindled to two points of contact: the unexpectedly cold, slippery pleasure of Methos' mouth, and the distractingly frosty, slightly painful cold in his own. He rode the knife-edge of arousal with some difficulty as Methos pleasured him relentlessly, the beautiful mouth warming slightly as he teased and tormented. A tug of lips, a skim of teeth, swirling wet pressure and that insistent tongue...
The familiar face was lighted with mischief as Methos grinned for an instant around his mouthful. He leaned up just a bit, changing the rhythm of his attentions. Down... a supple twist to the side... up. Mac writhed helplessly, pushing up into that wet heaven, combing his fingers through Methos' short hair, urging him on.
"Yes, please... like that. More. Yes..." He panted and gasped, twisting on the slippery leather sofa, craving release like he craved air to breathe, and still never wanting this to end.
"Methos..." When Methos pulled him down further on the cushion and began to gently, very gently stroke across that tense, unexplored ring of muscle between his buttocks, it was too much. The balance of pleasure shifted and Duncan felt the pressure surge out of his control and break free in sharp, pulsing waves that pulled on the base of his spine.
Conscious thought returned a moment later. The ice cube was gone, but he wasn't sure if it had melted away or been spit out. Duncan reached down to cup Methos' face, drawing him up for a deep, slow kiss. He could taste himself, salty and slightly bitter, on his lover's tongue. Methos' mouth seemed very hot.
Duncan pulled back a bit, just enough to breathe. Methos' face was flushed, his lips swollen. The expressive hazel eyes were almost all pupil. And at this moment, he was the most beautiful thing Mac had ever seen.
Mac reached for his partner's neglected arousal, firmly stroking the tight erection. He started to slide off the couch, to offer more than the touch of his hand, but Methos stopped him with subtle shake of his head and another kiss. The slender man gasped and arched into the touch, placing a hand on top of Duncan's to guide the rhythm. It didn't take much.
"Gods, Duncan... yes... please..." Methos' eyes burned into his. Mac saw the instant of release, that point that there was no going back from as the intense gaze clouded and turned inward. He pulled Methos against him, holding him, covering the soft mouth with his own.
Methos trembled and shivered in his arms, spilling heat and wetness over their hands and Mac's thighs. It was a long moment before normal breathing resumed.
Methos leaned his head against Duncan, panting from the heat and exertion. They were both saturated with sweat. "Shower?"
Mac smiled down at him. "Is that a hint or an invitation?"
Oh, the day was filled with possibilities. "Invitation, Mac, definitely an invitation."