Chapter 6: Wake-Up Call
The morning light was different. It wasn’t the silvered moonlight of possession, but a thick, honeyed gold that poured through the skylight and pooled in the hollow of Jude’s spine. Kurt woke to its warmth on his face and the solid, reassuring weight of Jude’s arm slung across his waist.
He was sore. A deep, internal ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He shifted slightly, and the memory of the night before—Jude’s mouth, his hands, the relentless, perfect friction—flooded back, so vivid it stole his breath. He turned his head on the pillow.
Jude was on his stomach, face turned toward Kurt, his features softened in sleep. The sheet was tangled low around his hips, exposing the flawless, sun-kissed plane of his back, the dip of his waist, the gentle swell of his ass. Kurt’s gaze lingered there. Heat, slow and syrupy, began to replace the pleasant ache.
He couldn’t help himself.
Moving with deliberate care, he eased down the sheet. The fabric whispered over skin. Jude’s ass was fully exposed now, pale where the California sun hadn’t touched. Kurt’s mouth went dry. He leaned in and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to one cheek, then the other. The skin was warm, impossibly smooth.
Jude sighed in his sleep, a low, unconscious sound.
Emboldened, Kurt let his tongue trace the path his lips had taken. A slow, wet stripe down the center of Jude’s back, over the subtle knobs of his spine, into the damp heat of the cleft. Jude stirred, a faint twitch in his muscles. Kurt did it again, more deliberately, his tongue teasing the tight pucker of muscle he found there.
“Kurt…?” Jude’s voice was muffled by the pillow, thick with sleep. “What’re you…”
His question dissolved into a sharp, startled gasp as Kurt’s wet tongue pressed directly against his hole, licking broad, flat strokes. Jude’s hips jerked, pushing back instinctively.
“Shhh,” Kurt murmured against his skin, the vibration making Jude shiver. “Just relax.”
He reached blindly for the nightstand, his fingers closing around the familiar bottle of lube. The click of the cap was softer this time, intimate. He slicked two fingers, watching the way Jude’s breathing had changed, becoming quicker, shallower. He replaced his tongue with the slick pad of his thumb, circling slowly, applying gentle, persistent pressure.
“Fuck,” Jude breathed, his voice now fully awake and ragged. He pushed back again, a clear, wordless plea.
Kurt pushed his thumb in, just to the first knuckle. Jude gasped, his back arching. “Yeah. Just like that.”
He withdrew and replaced his thumb with his index finger, sinking it in to the hilt in one smooth motion. Jude’s whole body clenched, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. Kurt crooked his finger, searching, and found the swollen gland immediately.
Jude cried out, his fist punching the mattress. “Jesus Christ.”
“Found it,” Kurt said, a note of dark satisfaction in his voice. He began to fuck Jude with his finger, a slow, relentless piston, scissoring gently before adding a second. The stretch was exquisite; he could feel the tight resistance giving way, the hungry clutch of muscle. Jude was panting, his face still buried in the pillow, his ass rising to meet every thrust of Kurt’s fingers.
“Kurt… Kurt, I need…” Jude couldn’t finish.
“I know what you need.” Kurt’s own cock was achingly hard, leaking onto the sheets. He withdrew his fingers, wiping them on the duvet. He poured more lube into his palm, stroking himself roughly, coating his length. He positioned himself on his knees behind Jude, one hand guiding the head of his cock to that slick, loosened entrance.
He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
The crown of his dick breached Jude, and they both froze. Kurt watched, mesmerized, as the tight ring of muscle stretched to accommodate him, swallowing the tip. Jude shuddered, a long, full-body tremor.
“You okay?” Kurt’s voice was strained.
“Don’t stop,” Jude gritted out. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
That was all the permission he needed. Kurt sank in, a slow, devastating slide until his hips were flush against Jude’s ass. The feeling was unimaginable—hot, tight, consuming. Jude was everywhere around him.
He held still, buried to the root, letting them both adjust. Sweat dripped from his chin onto Jude’s back. Then he pulled back almost all the way and slammed home.
The sound Jude made was pure, unfiltered want. Kurt set a punishing pace from the start, each drive of his hips a claim. The slap of skin on skin was louder in the morning quiet, obscene and perfect. He gripped Jude’s hips, his fingers digging into bone, holding him in place to take every inch.
“Is this what you wanted?” Kurt panted, his control fraying. “Waking up like this? Getting fucked full of my cock?”
“Yes! God, yes, just like that, right there, you feel so fucking deep—” Jude’s words broke off into a series of choked cries.
Kurt could feel the tension coiling in Jude’s body, could hear it in his broken voice. He reached around, his hand finding Jude’s hard, slick cock. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a tight, twisting grip.
The dual assault was too much. Jude’s body went rigid. His back arched like a bowstring, and he came with a raw, shouted curse, his release spurting over Kurt’s hand and onto the rumpled sheets. The violent clenching of his ass around Kurt’s driving cock was the final trigger.
Kurt’s orgasm roared up from his balls, white-hot and blinding. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, and poured into Jude, his own cry mingling with Jude’s fading groans. He collapsed forward, draping himself over Jude’s sweaty back, spent and utterly emptied.
For minutes, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Kurt softened inside him, loath to move. Finally, he rolled off, onto his back. Jude turned his head, his face flushed, his green eyes hazy and sated. A slow, effortless grin spread across his face.
“Best wake-up call ever,” he rasped.
Kurt laughed, a breathless, happy sound. “Coffee might be a close second.”
They cleaned up in a slow, shared shower, the water steaming and their touches lingering but soft. After, wrapped in towels, Kurt put the coffee on while Jude wandered the loft, examining the sketches pinned to a large corkboard. The easy domesticity of it sent a nervous thrill through Kurt’s chest.
Jude paused before a half-finished watercolor, something Kurt had attempted and abandoned weeks ago. “This is good,” Jude said softly. “The light here. You captured it.”
“It’s crap,” Kurt said, handing him a mug. “I don’t have the patience for paint. Fabric talks back, but it doesn’t judge you.”
Jude sipped his coffee, his eyes on Kurt over the rim. “So. The shoot.Today. You still want to do this?”
“The collection is called ‘Found Object,’” Kurt said, leaning against the kitchen island. “It’s about beauty in the unfinished, in the raw. About something perfect being discovered in a state of…” He gestured vaguely.
“In a state of being thoroughly fucked?” Jude supplied, his grin turning wicked.
Kurt felt a blush creep up his neck. “In a state of honest disarray. Which, yes, I suppose you’ve personally illustrated.”
“I’m your muse, right?” Jude said it lightly, but his eyes held a question.
Kurt put his mug down. He walked over to Jude, took the mug from his hands, and set it aside. He framed Jude’s face with his hands, his thumbs brushing over the faint freckles on his cheeks. “You’re not my muse, Jude. You’re the damn collection. Every stitch. Every seam. It’s all you.”
He kissed him then, a slow, coffee-flavored kiss that tasted like a promise. When he pulled back, Jude’s expression was unreadable, a mixture of awe and something like fear.
“Then we should get to work,” Jude said quietly.
An hour later, the first assistant arrived with garment bags, followed by a harried hairstylist and a taciturn photographer Kurt had worked with before. The loft transformed into a studio, lights erasing the morning’s golden intimacy, replacing it with a sterile, brilliant white.
Jude emerged from the dressing screen in the first look: deconstructed denim trousers, frayed at the hem, and a sheer mesh shirt that revealed the fading marks on his neck and shoulders. His hair was artfully tousled. He stood under the lights, and his easygoing demeanor shifted, solidified into something sharper, more confrontational.
Kurt’s breath caught. It was Jude, but it was also the clothes, the concept, the night before, all coalescing into a single, powerful image.
The photographer’s shutter began to fire, a rapid, mechanical chitter. “Give me nothing,” the photographer droned. “Blank. Empty.”
Jude’s gaze, however, found Kurt standing behind the tripod. He didn’t look at the camera. He looked at Kurt. And in his eyes was none of the morning’s softness, nor the night before’s wild passion. It was a challenge, a dare. It was the same look he’d had in the alley right before he kissed him.
The shutter clicked and clicked.
Kurt’s hands trembled as he reached for his sketchpad. This wasn’t just a photo shoot anymore. It was a confession in daylight. And he had no idea how to control the narrative, or his heart.