Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Forty-Four

Jensen props himself up on one elbow and leans over to stroke a thumb over my cheekbone.

"Hey," he murmurs. "You okay?"

I take in his blissed-out face, flushed and rapt, and think that it's pretty much the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. God, if I was ten years younger, I'd fuck him right now.

As it is, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get it up again.

Momentarily hypnotized by Jensen's general...Jensen-ness, I forget how to speak. There are so many things I should say in this moment, creating a turbulence in my head. But I don't say any of them. They're too much and not enough, sticking in my throat. I think he understands, though. 

Jensen kisses each tear on my face - I don't normally cry during sex but fucking perfect doesn't do justice to what we just shared - his lips soft and fluttering like a butterfly's wing.

"Sorry I'm such a sap," I laugh breathily, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my palm. "Ugh, fuck."

"No, I'm sorry." He kisses along my jaw in contrition. "Sorry I can't do you a happy ending."

It's overwhelming to contemplate: a pressure in my chest, a tightness in my lungs and around my heart. And the enormity of what we've done sinks in: we've betrayed our wives; we've cheated. We'll probably never be more than sex and power plays and a hell of a lot of chemistry. Because Jensen knows he can't offer me a ring or a house or babies or any of that other crap. No one can ever even know about this, about us.

The realization causes a shameful, wretched thing to coil in my stomach. I've denied my feelings for Jensen before; I could've continued to bury this love deep, deep within myself. Maybe I should have.

"I'm scared, Jensen." I speak the words like they might blow away on the soft exhale of his breath.

I swallow, throat dry. I can practically feel my masculinity drying up and withering away, but this situation really does suck ass. I'm going to spend every day of my life losing someone I never really had. How am I supposed to pick up the pieces that many times?

Jensen doesn't say anything at first, and I realize I can't put words to what I'm feeling either. I'm scared but I'm also grateful, happy and heartbroken at the same time. Everything conflicts. There probably aren't words, anyway, that can say more than what we've already said with our bodies.

Then Jensen puts a firm hand on the back of my neck, angles my head towards him. This isn't like any of the kisses we've had before. We're scared. The kiss is painful. He bites, but I don't tell him to stop, not even when I taste blood. I take it, let it go on until he slows, lets go and just pants in my mouth.

"Me too, Mish."

I shove him back against the bed, hands roaming greedily over his chest and ribs as our mouths clash together in another ravenous kiss. We kiss for a long time, erasing days of misery and weeks of tension and months of longing with our lips and our tongues and our hands and Jensen whispers something that might be angel but which I can't really hear over the throbbing of my blood in my ears and the pounding of my heart against his.

I know this is uncharted territory for us, but I'm willing to ride it out a little longer. I want to. I'm eager to make the effort, go the distance, whatever the cost. Because the ominous prospect of a Jensen-sized hole in my life should everything go pear-shaped looms shadowy and dark, and it's been mocking me for too long.

The sheets are wet, so we roll over to the other half of the bed and kiss each other drowsy. Jensen doesn't even let me break the kiss when I reach across for my phone, one hand palming at my ass the entire time like he's got a standing invite. And maybe he does.