The Pacific was so vast and deep and cold, it seemed like the world had fallen away into a watery darkness. Like the end of everything. But the sound slowly worked its way into Casey's skin, soft caressing sighs, over and over. The little cottage was a cocoon, and Aunt Jess had wrapped him first in a quilt, and then in her arms, and had let him cry it out, until he was quiet and calm. The sunlight was bright on the hillside, and Casey looked out over the blue, wondering how something that endless could ever have a beginning.
This is Zeke's favorite part. Getting off is great, an orgasm's always welcome, but this is what he fucking loves. The fast, hard movement, muscles working, his whole fucking body involved, every part of him obsessively caught in that slamming rhythm. He's not the best at initiating and he isn't much of a hugger, but this he can do – dive into flesh and keep going, feverish and amazed, tight grip and sweat and sound escaping his lips. This he can give, because he can't help giving it, and trust is far behind him, and fear is nowhere to be found.
It's fucking nasty. Casey finds the damn things everywhere - in the gravel of the driveway, on the floor of the boathouse, floating in the toilet, rubbed into the bedroom carpet. He even found one in the fucking pillowcase once. Shriveled little corpses, exuding the sour-sharp smell of pleasure ended, always sudden, that little stench. They reminded him of desiccated worms, discarded carapaces, corpses. Zeke just laughs at his jitters and pulls another one out of the pack, and then there's the taste of Zeke's mouth, dark and knifelike with that smoky tang.
Those butts are still nasty, though.