Hush (15 page)

“Holy—” Cam gasps, because Wren doesn’t give him any warn­ing before spreading Cam’s ass cheeks and sealing his mouth over Cam’s hole. “
Oh god
,” he moans, completely off guard and a little trepidatious. “I don’t know…”

“Quiet.” Wren pulls away and lightly bites the sensitive inside of Cam’s thigh. “You trust me or you walk away. Those are the rules.”

“But—” Cam stops. Wren has started again without waiting, applying tiny, light licks to the rigid edges of his hole, and it feels
so good
, so incredibly good; nerves he’s never known he has are lighting up like Christmas lights all over his body. Some part of his mind tumbles with anxiety and constant worry—
is it gross? Do I smell weird, taste weird?
He had no idea Wren would do this, start from the end of the list, and he wishes he’d had an extra hour—or three—to
prepare.

“I know you like this,” Wren says against his skin, his mouth and breath moist and warm. “
God
, I can feel it.” He noses up the length of Cam’s erection, suckling at the head a little while his thumb presses lightly against Cam’s hole. Suddenly a hunger Cam has never imagined consumes him; he wants something inside him. Wants
Wren
inside him where he feels suddenly empty.

“Oh, f–fuck—” Cam arches and tries to grind down onto Wren’s finger, body caught between opposing poles of need, wanting to thrust further into Wren’s mouth but also to push down onto the sweet tease of the finger barely breaching him. “Please,
please
,” he begs.

“Please what?” Wren says, pulling off of his dick. His enjoyment is obvious, the teasing clear in his voice.

“More,” Cam gasps.

“Well, I do have a list to work through,” Wren taunts before removing his thumb. He presses it against Cam’s perineum and closes his mouth against his hole again, burrowing into the divide between his cheeks. He keeps Cam on the edge and guessing, going from hard and fast licks to light suckles and flickers of his tongue. Pleasure rolls through Cam like storms roiling, swamp­ing him until he almost can’t breathe. His asshole begins to pulse, and it’s incredibly strange but so pleasurable to feel himself open so easily for Wren’s finger.

“Can I touch myself?” he manages to ask.

“No,” Wren says, almost absently. “You’re going to come like this.” Wren’s thumbs dig his cheeks open even farther; his hands grip Cam so hard he hopes he’ll have bruises. Wren hums, licks over Cam sloppy and fast and then, without warning, stiffens his tongue and probes until he’s breached Cam’s hole. He massages the supple give of Cam’s ass and presses and presses until he’s further in, a thing Cam would never have thought someone might
actually
do and that feels like nothing he has words for.

“Come now,” Wren says with steel and confidence, then pushes his thumb in and Cam does just that, crying out loudly, pulling his legs back as far as he can to milk just a little more, as much as he can, out of his orgasm.

When it’s over, Wren helps him ease his shaking legs down, then nudges and helps him move until he’s properly on the bed. Cam keeps his arm over his face; there’s something free-falling and strange and incredible about this moment of coming down. He loses himself in it, letting himself bask in a way he’s never been able to before. Everything is usually so rushed and furtive, risky and
public
that Cam has to scrounge for the strength to pull himself together. He’s aware sometimes of Wren gently nudging him in those moments.

Right now, though, the silence is almost complete but for their breathing. Floating in this silence is a luxury, new and now, deeply needed. After a moment he hears the whisper of tissues being pulled from a box. Wren perfunctorily cleans him off.

“Sorry,” he croaks. Wren’s hand pets his shoulder briefly, and Cam finally lets himself open his eyes. He blinks against the bright lights. Wren looks… different. His eyes are wide in what seems almost like surprise. His lips, darker than Cam’s ever seen them, tremble. Cam doesn’t need any of Wren’s abilities to catch that Wren is overwhelmed. The only thing Cam knows how to offer is what he himself would want.

“Kiss me?” he asks.

Beautifully, Wren doesn’t resist. His clothes are rough against Cam’s skin; all those zippers are so cold where Cam radiates heat. When Wren drapes himself on top of Cam, his body is heavier than Cam had imagined. Wren kisses Cam softly, seeking some­thing, and Cam wants to believe it’s from a feeling of close­ness, some­thing sweet like the gratitude he feels right now. He cannot believe he just did that—that he let Wren do that. Hulled and shaking, Cam lets his hands wander because even after that per­fect storm of pleasure, there is an itch under his skin for more.

“Cam.” Wren pulls away from the kiss when Cam’s hands start to struggle with Wren’s shirt and its endless supply of zippers. “I haven’t—”

“Please let me,” Cam entreats. “You wanted me to be good, right?” He teases, “Don’t I get a reward?”

“That orgasm wasn’t enough of a reward?” Wren’s eyebrow arches, a fleeting, crooked smile flickering across his face.

“You saw the list,” Cam’s voice is huskier than he knew it could be. His eyes follow Wren’s mouth. “You know what I want most.” He pulls Wren down and in by his hips until they are flush. “And I can tell you want it too.”

Wren looks away; despite that, he grinds down a little, as if he can’t help his body’s reaction.

This is not the plan.
Using Cam’s list his own way, on Wren’s own terms, was. The things Cam wants most—simple things that made Wren squirm when he saw how many are things Cam wants to
do to
him
—are all meant to be teased out, to be held aloft.

Wren is not stupid; he knew how much rimming Cam would turn him on. But he’s always been able to count on his own very well-honed self-control and has never doubted it. Then again, he’s never had Cam, cracked open and soft everywhere, nakedly vul­nerable with those deep cocoa bedroom eyes, persuading him to give in. He never suspected Cam could be like this, so easy in the aftermath, so open and sensual. Wren can’t remember a time he felt like that. No, he won’t let himself remember.

Cam’s fingers slide around until they cup Wren’s ass and his fingertips dig into the crease between Wren’s cheeks and thighs; he leans up to kiss the corner of Wren’s mouth carefully and traces his tongue gently across Wren’s lower lip. Wren sighs into it, sinking into the lush warmth of Cam’s mouth, because
this
his rules allow. Kisses, he’s bargained for. Cam’s fingers explore him carefully, down the fabric of his pants over his thighs and under his shirt to map the dip of his spine. It’s not until something too hot and needful spikes inside that Wren is even aware that he’s moving, rolling his dick against Cam’s thigh. His breath shivers out around a helpless whimper; it’s so
good
. It’s been so long since he let someone be like this with him. And it’s not been hard, after so long, to convince himself that he can do just as well for himself as anyone else can, which is a fucking delusional lie, Wren realizes with startling clarity, when he starts to really pump against Cam.

“Let me touch you,” Cam breathes into his ear, and nips gently at the edge of his earlobe. His hands span Wren’s waist, and
oh
he feels so
small
in the wide span of that grip. Excitement shoots through him and he groans. There’s something in him that revels in the loss of control. He’s not exactly helpless, but sud­denly he just doesn’t care to fight it anymore. Wren rides that surg­ing wave, nodding and exhaling a broken
yes
, crushing his mouth back over Cam’s.

He knows it will hardly last, he’s so close. But he manages to pull back enough to let Cam’s hands work his pants open, then almost cries out when one snakes in and grips him. It’s awkward and a tight fit between their bodies, but it doesn’t take more than two thrusts into Cam’s fist for Wren to start coming. He bites down on Cam’s lip and moans into his mouth, working his hips in corkscrews.

“Oh
fuck
,” is all he can manage once he’s rolled off of Cam and onto his back, gasping like a fish out of water. When he opens his eyes, he finds Cam propped up on his elbow, watching him, taking him in from head to toe. Wren smirks; Cam’s gaze keeps straying to his softening cock, still peeking out of his pants.

“I’ve never been with a guy like this before,” Cam says sheep­ishly when he realizes he’s been caught. Wren sits up abruptly, Cam’s words striking him like ice water.

“You said you weren’t new,” he says tersely.

Cam sits too, more calmly. “I’m not. I’ve had sex… with a girl. I dated a guy but… I found you again, before things got that far.”

“That’s…” Wren scrubs his hand over his face and then real­izes he’s still partly undressed. He gets himself together, and his clothes, pulled into order, encapsulate him like armor.

“I didn’t lie,” Cam says quickly, resting his hand on Wren’s shoul­der. “What was I going to do? Find some guy to fuck so I could tell you I wasn’t new to two kinds of sex?”

Cam has a point. But still, it doesn’t sit right with him. It’s like taking some­thing, being Cam’s first and manipulating him—whether with permission or not—when firsts should belong to some­one… special. “I don’t want to take anything from you,” he says finally. Cam cocks his head and looks at him questioningly. “I mean,” Wren clarifies, “like that. Relationship things or, like, first time things.”

“Wren, I don’t care about that,” Cam explains. “That’s never been a thing I’ve thought about.”

“Cam, I don’t get the feeling you thought about this kind of stuff that much to begin with,” Wren shoots back.

“How would you—?”

“I just sensed it, okay?” Wren snaps. He’s not sure if reading Cam from the get-go could be seen as a violation of his privacy—Wren tries to be very careful about that—but from the start, it had been almost impossible to ignore Cam’s energy.

“Maybe you’re right,” Cam says after a while. He situates himself so his back is against the wall and looks at Wren candidly. “You made the rules, Wren, and I agreed to them before this really started. This is what I want.” He takes Wren’s hand and puts it on his chest, like Wren had before. “Can you read that?”

And he can, it’s so clear, Cam comes through to Wren with no static when he tunes in. Wren closes his eyes and counts the beats of Cam’s heart and breathes in time; for a crystal clear moment, he feels incredibly connected, dialed into a feedback loop of something
right
.

Wren snatches his hand back and straightens his clothes, rolling quickly off of Cam’s bed. He feels scared and out of control and messy inside. “I have to go; I have work,” he says, exiting the room with a slammed door before Cam can say anything more.

It takes a while for
Cam
to put himself together after that. He’s never done well with emotional whiplash. While Pey­ton’s erratic moods and behavior had never been directed at him, they had always dom­inated the family home, filled every room with edges and foreboding. Never knowing when Peyton might butt up against their parents or school or any sort of authority, when things might go from calm and predictable to the special tor­nadoes they all made of their emotions had always been more stress­ful to Cam than her actual behavior.

Being with Wren is an awful lot like being sucked into those winds. Cam isn’t lying when he says he doesn’t care about the idea of firsts. He does, however, care about the fact that he’d let himself be so open, so unfettered and utterly naked for Wren—fleetingly,
beyond
sex—only to be left alone and confused and frankly, angry.

It’s incredibly hard to think clearly when you’re naked with the residue of come on your stomach, ass still fluttering from the sensation of someone’s mouth against it. Cam has never in his life dreamt of feeling how Wren just made him feel. And he hates being angry. Rather than focus on that when he knows he’s being dangerously irrational, Cam forces himself to take yet another shower and gather himself.

By the time Nate gets home, Cam feels put back together and almost ready to analyze what the hell just happened.

Wren shakes the whole way
home. He stumbles into his apart­ment, which is thankfully empty, and only when he takes off his shoes does he realize he’s left his bag at Cam’s.

“Fuck, fuck
, fuck
!” Wren threads his fingers through his hair and tugs, kicking the base of the door. He checks; his phone is still in his pocket, thank god. But there are other things he needs, books and notes for class, his wallet, his fucking
wallet
. What the hell is he going to do?

Wren slams himself into his room, frantically scrounging around his desk until he finds some spare cash. No matter that he has no need for it right now; until he can figure out what step to take next, the safety net of not
absolutely
needing his bag is a tiny comfort.

Wren flops onto his bed. It smells wonderful under his face. It’s too early for dinner or sleep, and he’s too raw for conversation or interaction. Instead he just tries to let himself drift in the com­fort of his little cave. He rolls onto his back and appreciates the cocooning affect of the half-canopy sweeping from the ceiling to the wall, where it cascades behind his bed. Something about the fabric partly surrounding his bed makes it feel safe, close and comforting.

After a while, Nora lets herself in. Other than noting her arrival, Wren isn’t focused on much more than trying to hold it together. Little reminders of Cam invade his senses; his stomach feels grimy with come, and the faintest wisps of scent, Cam’s natural smell, linger on his clothes. If he let himself imagine it, Wren might still taste Cam in his mouth.

What persists, though, is that split-second connection that had hummed through all of his bones and into his chest and landed deep inside his most private, yearning self. Wren has to bite back tears and will himself not to go there mentally. He just isn’t strong enough. He’s not.

Cam notices Wren’s bag
on
his way out to dinner. It’s been a few hours—long enough for him to calm down and to start to assess what might have just happened. The thing is, he’s not sure what Wren is emotionally capable of. Because once he’s removed his own feelings and insecurities from the situation, it’s suddenly very clear to Cam how scared Wren is. Of what, exactly, Cam’s not sure; but now that he’s perceived the fear, he’s entirely sure of its truth.

“What’s that?” Nate toes the strap of the bag when he notices Cam looking at it.

“A friend left it,” Cam says absently.

“Are they gonna come get it or meet us for dinner?” Nate asks, pulling the door open and waiting for Cam to make up his mind.

“I just noticed it, honestly,” Cam says. “I’ll text and see what they want to do.” He purposely avoids saying
he
because he’s not ready for Nate to start asking questions.

“‘Kay.” Nate locks the door behind them and Cam strides away. He’ll text Wren soon enough. Wren still needs time; Cam’s not sure why he knows this, but he is sure of it.

* * *

Wren can only hold out
for a day before he has to get his bag. It has his schoolbooks in it, and his calendar, which he’s always found easier to keep on paper than in his phone.

He refuses to go unprepared. They had an agreement, and a deep connection wasn’t part of the rules. He needs to remind Cam that he’s—they’re—there for a specific reason. He needs to walk in and control the situation. Make Cam remember what this is about.

Wren is at his desk, toying with a mechanical pencil that refuses to work properly while he sketches out potential game plans, when he feels Nora enter the apartment. There’s no noise, and she doesn’t call out; but he feels something desperately sad permeate the walls and his skin and his heart.

He approaches her closed door cautiously. They’ve both been careful not to read or absorb each other; living with someone and maintaining privacy is hard when both have gifts, but they’ve managed pretty well. Wren has
never
felt her emotions so clearly before.

“Nora?” His knock is almost inaudible.

“Come on in,” she calls. He opens the door to find her cross-legged at the head of her bed. Her hair is down, a mess of tangled waves hiding her face; she must have had it up in a bun.

“Can I sit?” Wren proceeds with caution. There’s so much hurt radiating from her, it’s hard for him to breathe.

“Yeah.” She looks up. Her eyes are red and wet; her cheeks are dry but for tear tracks.

“Honey, what—” he tries to scoot in to hold her, but she just shakes her head and cranes her torso away.

“Wren…” She takes a deep breath and looks down. “I know we don’t ask each other, but could you…”

“What do you need?” he asks.

“Don’t read, but can you make this go away? For a bit? It’s…” She starts to cry; it’s impossible not to want to hold her. Wren bites his lip. She holds her hands out. “It’s too much.”

“Of course.” Wren folds her hands in his; they’re cold and small and he has to push back at the furious crest of pain that transmits through the touch. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply and pushes it back, wills it from her body. It takes a while, and a lot of effort and concentration. By the time he’s managed it away, he’s breathing hard and a headache is forming at his temples.

“Wren, you can…” Her eyes are open, the palest blue he’s ever seen. “You can stop, I know it’s a lot.”

“No,
no
.” He’s not willing to just take something away. The love­liest aspect of his gift is what he can give, how he can make other people feel good. He takes a shaking breath, pulls from his core and slowly, achingly, fills her with comfort, with rest. With love.

He holds her there, through the increasing buzz of pain in his head that spreads into his chest and seeps into his bones. He washes her in comfort until she’s nodding off. With what strength he has left, he arranges her comfortably and covers her with a blanket, saturating her with love as she slips into sleep so that she may dream in peace and wake up easily.

After that, he has to
sleep.
His class and work shift and fucking bag all have to wait, because what he’s done for Nora has been an incredible strain on his resources. Emotionally, taking in her pain was brutal, too. Not knowing what happened nags at him sorely, both during his twilight nap and waking hours, but he knows that questions will only shorten the lifespan of the comfort he gave her.

Wren wakes after a four-hour nap with incredibly sore muscles and a headache hangover. Nora is still out cold; his prolonged state of curiosity only makes him more irritated. The list of potential plans and outcomes on his desk mocks him. Cam has texted him twice—once to inform Wren that he has the bag, and once more recently to ask if everything is all right, since Wren was supposed to pick it up hours ago.

I’m on my way.

Wren knows it’s a mistake, because he’s carrying something ugly inside, and there’s a possibility it will spill over. But there’s also an aching, sharp energy in him that he’s sure Cam will fix, that being with Cam will calm.

“Want to talk about what—”

“Shut up and take your clothes off,” Wren interrupts him. Cam just raises an eyebrow and does what Wren needs. Not wants, but
needs
, he knows.

“Now what?” Cam asks quietly, standing naked by his desk. His cock is soft and he’s lightly covered with sweat. He hadn’t expected to find Wren waiting by his door when he came back from his run. “You realize I’m filthy right now, right?”

“I don’t care.” Wren makes an aborted gesture with his hand before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “Actually, if you must know, I like it.”

Cam smiles and leans back against his desk, jolting a little when the cold wood presses against his naked ass. “So?”

“So sit back a little more and spread your legs,” Wren com­mands. His face is closed off, the smile having dropped away once he spoke again. Cam swallows and does exactly what Wren asks; without saying so or acknowledging it, Cam knows he’s giving Wren something too.

“Touch yourself,” Wren says, and so Cam does.

“Are you even going to kiss me?” he asks quietly. Wren just stares at him. The only change in Wren’s expression is the tini­est twitch of an eyebrow.

“Not right now,” he says after a long minute of watching Cam stroke his cock torturously slowly. “How fast do you think you can get off?” he asks conversationally.

“I have no idea,” Cam answers honestly. “Are we testing this out?”

“I’m curious about something, is all,” Wren says.

“Care to share?” Cam closes his eyes briefly and centers his atten­tion on his body.

“Get off as fast as you can,” Wren says. “Without me.”

Cam puzzles over this before realizing that Wren means
without being compelled.
Which is
so
not a problem. Wren might be able to bring him higher than anything he’s felt before, but the desire he carries inside for Wren doesn’t ever
need
that help.

His balls are velvet-soft in his cupped hand, and in the other, his dick feels long and sensitive. Cam has only to focus on the recent memory of Wren’s tongue and finger edging into him to bring himself right up close to the edge.

“So fast,” Wren murmurs, and, through the haze of his own pleasure, Cam sees a little wonder.

“’Cause it’s you,” he manages. Wren’s eyebrows narrow imme­diately, and just as quickly he pushes Cam into an orgasm so hard that Cam almost loses his balance and falls over.

“Fuck,” Cam gasps. It’s over so fast, it’s brutal and somehow unsatisfying. “What did you—”

“That’s what you want, right?” Wren says. Cam shakes his head, feeling stupid and addled. Why does Wren sound so
bitter
?

“No, no, I— I want… what about you?” He swallows and Wren just shakes his head. He picks up his bag, which is still by the door, and turns to leave.

“Don’t worry about it,” he calls over his shoulder, pulling the door open without a care that Cam is naked and in full view of the hall. “I’ll call you later.”

And with that, he’s gone.

That ugly ball of emotions
he carried to Cam eases through Wren on his way to class. His arousal fades quickly, and he has to ignore the niggling feeling that leaves an acidic taste in his throat. Cam’s energy and willingness to please can be a balm, a dangerous nectar calling Wren until he’s helpless. His worry for Nora, his anger and confusion are less painful now. But something’s still off.

“Let’s go out tonight,”
Wren
bursts through the door. A week of carrying ill-fitting skin and anxiety has crested until it’s almost unbearable now.

“Tonight? Wren, it’s a Tuesday,” Nora responds.

“I don’t care,” Wren replies, shrugging off his bag and rolling his shoulders. “I feel like I need to work off some energy.”

“What kind of working off?” Nora asks, her face drawn with suspicion. Wren glares at her and turns to fiddle with his hair in their hall mirror, spiking it a bit, making it messier. He narrows his eyes at his reflection. He definitely doesn’t look the way he’s feeling.

“I’m calling Brokk and sending out the word,” he calls over his shoul­der. He starts flipping through his closet for something—he’s not quite sure what he wants but he’s feeling edgy and want­ing some­thing sexy and confident. He wants something that will fuel this itch. He wants to make mistakes tonight.

Brokk agrees to call their friends, and they settle on a time and place. In his small bathroom, Wren darkens his eyes with liner that makes the green of his irises appear almost iridescent.

“You look like you’re ready for trouble,” Nora observes when he comes back into the living room. He’s wearing a complicated black shirt with straps and buckles and blood-red skinny jeans it’s taken him ten minutes to squeeze into. He’s broken out his rarely worn, steampunk-inspired boots; they give him an extra inch of height and their heft feels grounding. Confident and untouch­able and excited at the prospect of making someone want him despite his inaccessibility, Wren squares his shoulders, breathes deeply and loves the calm before the storm of the power he has and uses.

“Are you coming?” Wren pulls the basic necessities out of his wallet, license and debit card, and squeezes them into his pocket. He badly wants Nora to come, and to distract her from her own reeling heartbreak.

“I’m not sure I want to bear witness to this,” Nora says. “Don’t you have a thing going?”

“Nora, you don’t get to tell me how to live,” he responds. “I made the rules. There’s no fidelity clause when I play. You
know
that.”

“Wren,” she says softly. “You don’t seem like it’s just play. It doesn’t feel like that when you come back from him.”