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Viggo pauses as he enters the garden, the warmth of the air wrapping itself around him, smothering after the cool, chill of the house. Raising his face to the sky he feels the sun's rays beating down from above, whilst, from below, the heat of the day is soaked up by his body, filtered from the flagstones through the soles of his bare feet.

Leisurely, he moves to the steps that lead from stone to lawn and places himself at the top, legs stretched out, toes curling into the still dew damp grass, the blades soft yet sharp as he flexes his feet in a languid rhythm. His gaze wanders the garden, finding Dom, who sits, half hidden in the shadow of a tree, dappled sunlight shining through its branches giving him a chequered look, back resting against the solid wood, knees bent to form an arch, a book in one hand, a popsicle in the other, indulging himself in the simplest of pleasures.

A lazy hum of arousal coils in Viggo, spiralling through his limbs as he watches Dom licksuck his way through his icy treat. Viggo’s eyes follow its progress as it bobs in and out, Dom’s cheeks hollowing slightly as he pulls the ice inside, their inward curve becoming more pronounced on withdrawal, sharp suction applied to capture any errant drops of sweet water from the frozen length. Dom’s tongue flickers out, swiping at, then circling the tip before running down to the base and back up again, the same movements repeated again and again until Viggo’s mouth is watering with need and want and desire.

Dom’s brow knots slightly, the popsicle stilled against his lower lip, spit wet surface glistening in the sun. He leans in slightly closer to the book, as if nearness will aid comprehension of the text. Unconscious of his actions he begins to draw the ice around the circumference of his mouth, rivers of melt forming as he does, running down to meet his hand staining it with a cherry blush. Behind him on the step Viggo mirrors Dom’s action with his thumb, feeling the ridge and furrow of his own lips, his mind imagining that it is hard water not flesh that travels there.

Frustrated in his understanding, Dom places the book to one side and switches the Popsicle to his now free hand, licking the spilled juice from the other with long strokes of his tongue - catlike, Viggo thinks - before switching back to begin to suck in and out again. Viggo positions his hands on the stone behind him and spreads his legs wide, starred in place, settles in to watch as Dom focuses his attention on the prize in his hand. Both absorbed in their own worlds until the popsicle is nearly gone. A fraction left clinging to the stick, Dom rises and turns to Viggo, moves toward him, lips stained like a Geisha, hips swaying like one too. He pauses, just out of reach and pulls the last of the ice away and inside, closing his eyes at the pleasure it brings as it melts within.

Confusion skitters across Viggo’s mind as the hands he offers in greeting are pushed away, replaced by understanding, then anticipation as Dom slowly lowers himself to his knees and begins to unwrap his new indulgence. Arousal builds, spiking through Viggo now, as hands work on fastenings and Dom’s head drops down, lips pursed, tongue ready to taste.

There’s a sense of slow burn, cold melting into heat, fire bleeding into ice; the juxtaposition magnified as pleasure floods Viggo’s mind. His hips buck involuntarily at the feel of it, their progress quickly checked as hands move to hold him in place.

Viggo swears he can taste the sweetness lingering in Dom’s mouth as molecules of sugar pass from tongue to skin, entering his blood stream in a rush, fusing with his cells, some of Dom in there too.

His spine curls as Dom takes him deep inside, swallowing as he does, the brief constriction of his throat adding fresh waves of sensation to those already juddering and skipping through Viggo’s body. He places a hand on the back of Dom’s head to hold him still, allowing himself a moment to revel in the beauty of being so far inside, and, as he does, he feels the huff of exhaled air as nose touches bone and rests there, waiting for permission to move away once more.

Reluctantly he removes his hand allowing Dom free reign. Movement begins again, now slower, teasing, tongue travelling Viggo’s length from base to tip, lips wrapping around heated flesh, the pressure perfect, the speed slow, lazy, indulgent. Viggo tilts his head back and closes his eyes, the feel of dry heat on one skin reflected in the wet heat on another, melting together to form a fever in his bones.