Although I should know better than that, we’ve been through tense situations before. Many times. Many, many times. And I don’t think that is what this is.
But still, I have to know. Pulling our lips apart has to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and yet I do it, ignoring the inner voice that warns me I may be ruining everything, just keep going. I can’t, I won’t have him if it’s not for the right reasons. I just can’t.
“Has something happened?” I repeat, my hand still stroking his face, my thumb brushing across the corner of his mouth, unable to stop touching him, unwilling to stop touching him. “Please tell me…”
He reaches for my hand, lays a soft kiss upon my thumb. I am almost undone by the wave of emotion that flows through me at this simple action, and I almost forget what it is I have said. Almost…
My mind begins to work, perhaps belatedly, as I try to imagine what it is that has him so undone. His father? No, his relationship with him is not of a sort to produce such a turbulent reaction, I know better. Sure, sometimes they get into deep philosophical debates. Heaven and hell. Life after death. The Cards versus the Cubs. But most of the time they pretty well see eye to eye. God couldn’t ask for a better son. No, that isn’t it. (Yes, I was kidding about the baseball thing. Or was I?) And of course it isn’t his mother, she’s perfect, like Jesus. One of the apostles? No, he wouldn’t be so upset over one of them, he would simply deal with it, not to mention they never agitate him in that way. Only me. And much as I despise Mary M, I don’t believe it’s her either, though I’d be more than happy to pin the blame on her. But not this time. Not right now.
So, who does that leave?
Of course, I should’ve known. If my libido weren’t so tied up in knots, maybe my brain would work better. It’s that fucking snake in the grass. It has to be.
Which also explains why Jesus is even out here to begin with. I should’ve questioned that first, but I was too preoccupied with other things. Obviously.
“What did he want?” I ask directly. No sense in beating about the bush. And he doesn’t pretend he isn’t aware whom I’m speaking of. My fingers find purchase beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward mine, as I try to get him to calm down, to take a deep breath. To talk to me…first. Perhaps I’m assuming there will be a second part to this agenda, but something deep inside of me says there will be. It feels as if everything is falling into place, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, or the cogs and gears of an intricate machine perfectly aligned for the first time, and beginning to move in sync.
“It doesn’t matter, Jude,” he replies automatically, too quickly for my taste.
Which tells me volumes.
“It does to me,” I insist, and I softly brush my lips across his. “What did he say?” I can feel his moan as well as hear it; it goes straight to my heart, and to my stiff cock. I force myself to take a deep breath, to hold my ground.
“He always makes promises, you know that, Jude, and I never accept what he has to offer.”
That’s it then. Lucifer has offered him something different. It’s just too obvious to me. But what? What can that snake possibly offer the son of God? The very idea is ludicrous. He has everything he could possibly want, or need, he…
It hits me in a flash, then, even as it dovetails with my own desires and wants.
What I want that I can’t have must be the same thing that Jesus wants and can’t have, and the wily Lightbringer has not only figured it out but offered it to him—
namely, a longer life, with me as the bargaining chip, the deciding factor, the icing on the cake. And the knowledge is not only stunning to me, but it fills me at the same time with an elation such as I’ve never felt before. Dare I say it aloud? Dare I name it? I do dare.
Jesus loves me, as I love him. It must be. It has to be. But I need to hear an affirmation of his feelings, this is my own imperative.
“He told you that you could have me, didn’t he,” I murmur softly, watching his expression as he nods. I knew he would not lie to me; it is not in his nature. “I’m not his to give, I’m yours, and yours alone,” I promise him solemnly, “now, always, and forever. For as long as we both shall live.” Before he can even voice the words—I’m only too well aware that isn’t very long at this point—I have stopped him, my lips on his, and there is nothing more to be said.
The longer we kiss, the deeper the kiss becomes, as if we are pouring our very souls into this one act, making up for two thousand years of denial, two millennium of desire brought to a head in this single moment. Our lips part gently, our mouths unabashedly exploring one another—taste and touch and scent. One hand caresses my cheek, the fingers of the other slipping into my hair, oh God how good that feels, while his own cheeks are satin beneath my fingertips.