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He finds it unsettling, the way Michael does that. Maybe even more than the fact that he does anything in the first place.
Every now and then, when the apartment is dark and Lincoln half asleep, Michael slips into his bed, spoons him tightly and reaches around to slide a warm, steady hand into Linc’s pajamas. Neither of them speaks; there’s only a pleading “Shhh” from Michael if Lincoln tenses under his touch. He strokes him slowly and smoothly, all the while kissing and licking his neck, his jawline, even his mouth when Lincoln allows it. Inevitably, in the end, Lincoln yields and pumps his hips with a sigh mixing relief, remorse and breath-taking pleasure.
Michael never asks him to reciprocate; he doesn’t let happen actually. Clinging to his brother, shaking with need and arousal, he rubs hard, silky flesh against the small of his back until wet heat gushes on Lincoln’s skin. That is the most unsettling part, how immature it feels even though Michael is far from being a kid.
Guilt is enough to make Linc mumble, “We really shouldn’t...” but not enough to make him finish his sentence when Michael cuts him off with a sloppy kiss.
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