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At the sound of his own name, Balfour pulled his mouth off David’s cock and leaned back on his heels. David looked down, blinking, to meet a sloe-black gaze that was half-pleading and half-angry. “My name is Murdo.” “Murdo,” David repeated dazedly, the sound of it unfamiliar to him, intimate.
The whole business was like that—a dizzying push-and-pull between giving and receiving, acting and reacting.
Sometimes he hated that he’d done it, and other times, it felt like the only sane thing he’d ever done in all his life.
“You saw yourself as an abomination,” Murdo interrupted flatly. “I wanted you to see you as I see you.” “And how exactly is that?” “As someone—” Murdo broke off and looked away, nostrils flaring as he breathed out his anger. “You’re not an abomination, David. You’re—beautiful.”
Those memories had been something to cherish too, a treasure he could take out and examine in his darkest moments. A remembrance that, for all his regrets, was rich with unexpected sweetness.
“I may not think I’m beautiful,” David said at last. “But I don’t think I’m precisely wrong either. Not anymore. Not since…you.”
“I know, but my point is that to help individuals, sometimes we have to work within the bounds of how things are, not how we would want them to be.”
“But let me make it plain so there’s no misunderstanding: what we shared two years ago wasn’t enough for me. What we’ve had this time isn’t enough either. I want more.”
Each kiss saying, you are here, in this world, with me.
