Free The Winter Courtship Rituals of Fur-Bearing Critters by Amy Lane Page B

Crawford so gently it damn near hurt. Crawford started to lean into the kiss, make it a serious thing, when Ben pulled back.
    “I’ll see you tonight, after chores,” he said, and he didn’t smile, and neither did Crawford.
    “I’ll be waiting.”
     
     
    That night, after settling everyone down to bed, Crawford did a quick cleanup of his room. He threw all the clothes in the hamper, changed the sheets, and then hit the shower and hit it hard, paying special attention to all his intimate puckers and below-the-belt creases. He shaved close, used deodorant, brushed his teeth, combed his hair (which was sometimes a hit-or-miss proposition), and then put on a clean pair of sweats and a sweatshirt that didn’t have any holes in it and his leather moccasins, and he settled down to knit some on Ari’s layette. He was working on the blanket now, in its fantastical rainbow colors and its fingering-weight precious yarn, and he figured the project really would keep him occupied for much of the winter, with some time out to knit Ben a sweater for Christmas.
    That last idea startled and pleased him, and he was well on his way to planning it out while his hands moved independently, so enchanted by the prospect that the knock on the door startled him.
    And set his heart thundering in his ears.
    He dropped the blanket in the basket and tried not to run to the door. When he opened it, there was Ben, a little backpack over his shoulder, his new jacket on against the November cold, his hat firmly over his head, his scarf nestled in against his neck, and his fingerless mitts on over those hateful factory-made gloves that Crawford would replace as soon as possible.
    But still, Ben smiled up at him, and Crawford smiled back and let him in. He came, stomping the snow off of his boots and setting his backpack by the door before starting to take off his gloves and his jacket.
    They still hadn’t said anything, and Crawford could only look at him hungrily, wondering if they’d be able to talk easy when it was done or if they would be there, together, moving, thrusting, screaming, all night long. He figured either one would be fine.
    Then Ben got rid of his outerwear and stopped to unlace his boots, but he did an awkward little shimmy as he bent. His grin up at Crawford was wicked. “You know,” he said conversationally, “this thing sort of itches. You, uhm, wouldn’t want to help me take it off, would you?”
    Spots danced in front of Crawford’s eyes. “I, uhm… oh, Christ.” All his blood just went south. “Hell yes. Yes. Yes, I want to help you take it off.”
    Ben stood up then in his bare feet and grabbed Crawford’s hand, tugging gently. “Then let’s go do that,” he said, rising excitement in his voice, and Crawford followed him up the stairs.
    They didn’t talk much after that.
    The hallway was dark, and by the time they got to the bedroom, Crawford didn’t care much about turning on the lights. One minute they were padding across the carpet, and the next minute their mouths were fused together, and Ben’s hands, only a little chilled, were running over his stomach, up his ribs, palming his chest as he scraped his thumbs delicately across Crawford’s nipples. That last one made Crawford keen, because suddenly his cock was so full, so achy, that it actually hurt to be teased like that, even from his nipples. Ben must have known it, too—he made a chuckle in the back of his throat, and Crawford pressed deeper into the kiss and grabbed Ben’s slender hips and hauled him closer, grinding up against him and letting him know that this was business this time.
    Crawford bent down and kissed Ben’s belly button, a dark divot in the pale flesh of his soft stomach, and then stood up, stripping off Ben’s shirt as he stood, planting kisses, nibbles, laves with his tongue as he went. He got to Ben’s nipples and stayed bent, suckling until Ben went, “Waauuuhh…. God… Crawford… killing me. This thing doesn’t