I actually let out a little sigh when I finished reading this fic. It isn't just beautiful, I think it may actually be a new favorite. You have a gift for telling a story:
I took him somewhere expensive, and bought champagne, and halfway through the dinner I realized I'd made a mistake. He was laughing, and flushed, and just a little drunk, not on a few glasses of champagne, but on catching me looking at his paintings.
And I was drunk on him.
When the waiter brought the bill, I handed him my card without looking at it. I slipped my hand over Justin's on the table, and felt my lips folding in.
Justin smiled at me. "Why don't you show me your hotel room?"
I took him back with me, and when he was half-naked, pressed against me, when I had my tongue in his mouth and my hands in his hair, I felt something inside me crack open. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't. I just ate him alive, kissing and sucking and fucking, pressing my tongue inside his ass, bucking into his throat, driving into him like I'd never fucked anyone before.
He cried out when he came the second time; I think it hurt a little, my cock riding rough over his prostate too soon after the first time he came. But I didn't hold back, and I knew he didn't want me to, his hand reaching back and pulling on my thigh.
And when we were lying there together, tangled and wet, I kissed his hair, and knew we'd fucked it up, whatever fragile peace we'd made in our lives. Because he wasn't smiling anymore.
"God," he said, his face buried in my neck. "I'm never going to stop loving you." ... The fifth time I fucked Justin was that night in his hot little New York apartment, and after that, we lost count.