Earlier today, he was concerned with the tightness in Matt's jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his cane, the controlled quiet of his voice. All those things he used to see in his daddy, just a land mine waiting to be stepped on. And Tim kept waiting to misstep, to move the wrong way, say the wrong thing. A reaction and anticipation set even deeper in him than all the military training he's received.

The rage that ebbs and flows. He saw it in Matt. But it's gone now.

Now, Tim can relax. He can focus on Matt's fingers on his face, feather-light, and the way his hips roll upwards, fiction against Tim's dick that makes his lips part, a groan low in his throat.

"Could say the same thing about your ass," he murmurs, gaze glued to Matt's face.

It's a shame, really, that he can't reach Matt's ass in this position. But that's fine, because his hands drop down and he gets Matt's pants undone, slipping a hand in to curl around his cock and stroke slowly.