Page 19 of Shatter
Xaiden made a sound low in his chest. His hand moved into Dawson’s hair, not a caress, a grip, palm against the back of his skull, fingers closing. He pulled Dawson’s head back just enough that he had to look up.
Green light. Xaiden’s face close. His eyes so dark the distinction between iris and pupil disappeared.
“Dawson. If we do this here,” Xaiden said, then stopped. His jaw worked. “Collins sweeps every ten minutes out of comms range. If I don’t check in.”
“Let them come,” Dawson said. The words surprised him with their sharpness. “By the time they get through the surf, I want to know what real feels like. Once. Without a sensor. Without a log. Without my brother deciding what my life is allowed to be.”
He reached down and took Xaiden’s other hand, the right one with the salt-burn scar along the outer edge. He pressed that palm against his own cheek and held it there, turning his face slightly so the roughness dragged across his skin.
The warmth rewrote something fundamental and immediate.
The cave did not change the air. Xaiden did.
Something shifted in Xaiden then, not in a single motion but in the absence of the step back that should have followed and did not. The professional distance Dawson had watched him reconstruct after every accidental closeness never returned. Dawson kept his face pressed into that scarred palm and Xaiden let him, then his fingers moved, sliding along Dawson’s jaw, into his hair, gripping at the back of his head with a firmness that made Dawson’s breath catch.
Xaiden exhaled. The sound carried surrender in it, low and rough.
His arms closed around Dawson and pulled him in hard, full contact, no space left between them. Dawson pressed his face into Xaiden’s neck and breathed him in, deep, open-mouthed, like he needed the air out of Xaiden’s lungs. His hands fisted in the back of the tactical vest and held. He felt the vibration when Xaiden said his name against his hair, the sound trapped between their bodies.
The sweater came off fast, dragged up and over, fabric catching for a second on his shoulders before Xaiden pulled it free. Cold cave air moved over Dawson’s bare skin and he sucked in a sharp breath, but then Xaiden’s hands were on him, ribs, sides, back, palms warm and rough, and the cold stopped mattering entirely.
Those hands moved slowly after that, not rushed, not uncertain. Mapping. Learning. Sliding over his ribs, up his sides, back down again, pressing, testing, like he was learning how Dawson fit together.
Xaiden pressed him down and followed him to the basalt, bracing his weight on one arm so he did not crush him but still covering him completely. The stone held a deep earth warmththat seeped into Dawson’s spine as Xaiden settled over him, large body blocking most of the green light.
“You’re bright in this light,” Xaiden said quietly. “Like you belong here.”
He started with Dawson’s arm, turning it carefully until the inner skin faced up into the green glow. He looked at it for a long moment, focused, intent, then bent and pressed his mouth into the inside of Dawson’s elbow. Not a quick kiss. He lingered there, mouth warm and open against the thin skin, then traced slowly along one visible vein with the flat of his tongue.
Dawson’s fingers spread against the basalt and found ridges to grip. His head fell back.
Xaiden took his time moving down. Ribs. Each one traced with his mouth, then his tongue, slow enough that Dawson could track every inch. The attention was relentless, patient, like he was determined to make Dawson’s body open one response at a time. By the time Xaiden reached his hip, Dawson was breathing hard, chest lifting and falling fast, skin flushed and oversensitive everywhere Xaiden had touched.
Xaiden’s mouth closed over the sharp ridge of his hip and he bit down, controlled, enough to make Dawson arch hard off the stone. The sound that came out of him was loud and raw and he did not try to stop it.
Xaiden’s hands slid down then, slower now, giving Dawson time to understand what was coming. His palm moved between Dawson’s thighs, not touching where Dawson needed him yet, just resting there, heavy and warm, letting the weight of his hand be known first.
“Look at me,” Xaiden said quietly.
Dawson forced his eyes open. Xaiden was watching him, not moving his hand yet, waiting. Making sure. Dawson nodded once, sharp.
Only then did Xaiden move.
He did not rush. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, learning what made Dawson’s breath break, what made his hips lift, what made his fingers claw against the stone. Dawson spread his legs without being asked, heels digging into the basalt for leverage, silently asking for more.
Xaiden shifted down between his thighs and looked at him again before he bent his head. His mouth was hot and slow and thorough, and Dawson’s hands dropped into his hair immediately, holding him there. Xaiden did not hold him still. He let Dawson guide, let him press and pull and chase what he needed, while Xaiden’s hands kept moving, one on Dawson’s hip, the other sliding back, fingers pressing, testing, learning, then easing in slowly, carefully.
Dawson went rigid for a second at the first stretch, a sharp inhale, but Xaiden did not stop. He murmured something low against Dawson’s skin, voice rough, and kept moving his mouth, kept Dawson’s body distracted while his fingers worked, slow, patient, giving his body time to open instead of forcing it.
It was a long time. Long enough that Dawson lost track of the tide, the cave, everything except the rhythm Xaiden set. Mouth. Hands. Pressure. Then easing off. Then again. Each time a little more, each time Dawson’s body giving instead of resisting, until the tension in his thighs turned into something else entirely and he was the one pushing back, asking without words for more.
“Easy,” Xaiden murmured, but his voice had changed, rougher now, strained. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Dawson laughed once, breathless, and pulled him up by the back of the neck and kissed him hard, messy, no control left in it. “I know,” he said against his mouth. “I know. I know. Please.”
Xaiden’s forehead dropped to his for a second, both of them breathing hard, and then Xaiden shifted between his legs, guiding Dawson’s thigh higher around his hip, giving himself space while still watching Dawson’s face.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.
