Dudley let his head fall back against the chair and he grinned. His fists clenched as Desmond stood, halting the near-reach to pull the sweet thing before him back between his knees. He hid them further, stretching his arms nonchalantly behind his head--no desperate need here, just enjoying the show--while Desmond tugged his shirt over the soft brown strands that Dudley wanted to bury his fingers in once more.
He gripped his own hair instead, mussing the electric blue hair at the back of his head as he stared. His smile slipped as his lips parted. Fucking hell. His gaze tripped along the newly exposed skin of Desmond's chest, danced down lines of muscle forged from real work, not some for-show gym or granted by some mystical space rock. He clenched his jaw, biting back the words. Now wasn't the time to hide his desire behind bitter snark--now was the time to shut up and fucking enjoy the damn show.
Touching the show would be nice.
Real fucking nice.
Bright blue eyes suddenly focused downward, where a boot pressed between his thighs. Dudley was working his way up the leather, watching in a damn near trance while slim fingers hissed a zipper down.
The tease of it, one zipper and another, neither even on the damn jeans, had his lips parting again, a shuddering breath leaving without his notice. Dudley swiveled his gaze to the top of the other man's head, the slight fall of hair that obscured his face. He wanted to touch, to grab Desmond's ankle and startle him enough that he'd look up, see the hunger that prowled through Dudley's veins and no doubt had stamped itself across his face--
--but if he did, it would stop.
And it was fucking slow enough already, the whisper of fabric slipped from skin, over and over again, the gentle thudding of clothes being lost somewhere. The knowing, knowing that neither one of them cared where. His hands gripped the arm of the chair and he blinked, not remembering when he'd moved them there. Needing them to stay, so they didn't simply take control, turning Desmond and taking him right down next to wherever those clothes had strayed.
Denim made a coarse sound, hauled over a lover's thighs, shoved down his calves and across the floor. A groan caught in his throat, forced its way to a rough grunt, the only other sound in the tight space of the bridge.
No commando for Desmond. Dudley's smile returned with a pleased curl. Of course not. Nothing so primitive for his delivery--the thought was unfinished, abruptly dismissed as he took in the rock-hard, full-attention, mouth-watering view.
"Fuck, look at you," Dudley swore.
His smile spread. "Now," he murmured, "How long you gonna let me look my fill before I see that blush spread all over?" And he gestured to the fine naked skin before him, not just the curves of one adorably anxious face. "Hmm?" How far would it bloom? How much of his skin would flush with desire when they sated this rush of need?
How long wasn't long enough. But Dudley was too busy plundering the cinnamon-flavored warmth of Desmond's mouth to mind. "I see," he said into the kiss, before biting hard on Desmond's lower lip. "Not long at all."
This time.
It didn't make him pause, the thought of a next time. Far from sweet declarations on its heels though, because Dudley wasn't--couldn't be--sweet nothings when his short-trimmed nails were scraping over slight hips, the thoughts that followed "next time" were born of desperate need and selfish lust. "Fuck, you taste like--" He cursed into the kiss, not finishing the comparison to pastries and spicy blends of alcohol and other delicious things as he toed off his shoes and kicked out of the pants Desmond had tugged down his legs in a hurry. Dudley's nails came back up, digging lightly into Desmond's ass. His teeth grazed the hard-earned muscle of a bare shoulder. "This," he grunted, stepping in to feel every inch of Desmond's more supple skin against his own coarse patches of dark blue hair. He groaned then bit down. Laving the spot with his tongue for a moment, he added almost as eloquently as Desmond, "I--This."
Even the bruises forged from after-hours "work" didn't bother him here, not in this space. He ran his thumbs in circles over the crescent-shaped indents in Desmond's skin. "Could fuckin' eat you up."
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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