Rory plopped himself on the bed and wrapped himself around Scott. For the first time since turning sick, Scott felt an answering tug in his groin and he grinned at Rory. “I think I’m feeling better.”
Giving Scott’s half-hardened dick a pat, Rory said, “We’ll take care of you later.”
Scott swallowed. “Rory?”
“Mm-hmm?” Rory kissed Scott at the junction of his shoulder and neck, making him shiver in a pleasurable way, which sure as hell was a nice change from shivering in a sick way.
But the words stuck in his throat as Scott realized what he really wanted to say. So instead, he slid up against Rory, something that his lover always reacted to.
A groan came from deep within Rory’s chest, and Scott wondered if it was a werewolf thing, it sounded so primal at times, or just a Rory thing. He didn’t care as he undid Rory’s pants, found him hard and wanting, leaking a little. He wrapped a hand around the warm skin, seemingly steel underneath, and stroked him up and down. “Have you been like this all weekend?”
A hoot of laughter was followed by “No! I was worried about you.”
“Well, worry no longer.” Scott slid a thumb around the lubricated glans, stroked again, even as Rory’s fingers crept up his back and into his boxers. It was an anchor, that warm, sure palm on Scott’s back, a promise of sorts so that when Rory’s other hand found Scott’s balls and cupped them, Scott didn’t jump, simply pulled in a short breath.
The tumble of emotion threatened to paralyze him, and he kept his focus on Rory and his velvet-steel cock that continued to harden under his ministrations, even while Rory mirrored Scott’s actions.
Hard breathing followed, Scott’s heart unable to keep up, or that was what he thought when it all became too intense.