Charles would discover his husband with heavy eyes and a smirk. Each with their victory. His head fell back, face to the sky as he was taken. He wondered, quietly of course, if he would know this man’s hole in the dark. Most certainly he would know his body, his face, his smell. He would know the shape of his cock by tongue alone.
Both hands, perpetually rough palms and fingers, caressed encouragement down the telepath’s spine, digging nails into his hips, pulling him back, and back again. His pacing was slow, at first, long enough for Charles to adjust. Filling him was a wanton addiction.
He imagined, in moments of teetering sanity, how many children they might have had, had the universe decided differently. He would have given his lover anything, and this one thing, this one important yet inconsequential thing, they could not share.
The demon hunched forward, sitting up on his foot, he reached around to fondle and stroke in rhythm with their hips.
He sank deep into the pleasure as his husband's hips finally began to shift, too enraptured to even protest that wicked little smirk. His head fell to the sand. Undoubtedly, he was already a mess. And would only be more so by the time they were through.
His every moan was swallowed by the sound of waves. There was no one to stifle them for; Mason could have every one. With every stroke of cock and hand, he drew nearer to his peak. He surrendered to the bliss, to the heat of his demon's body enveloping him.
Mason's name was a gasp on his lips as he spilled onto the sand. His body went limp, still, but for his heaving breath. He rode the high for a long and silent stretch.
"Did you..." he began, when his pulse had slowed to its normal pace, "were you thinking about making babies?"
