Maybe David should have expected that. David’s first real kiss may have been Lourdes, but Benson probably wasn’t calling him ‘Ladykiller Lourdes’ for no reason. He may have brought his sister to the Awards, but David doubts the seat filler would say that Lourdes was too young for her, especially now that he’s won a trophy that will bear his name.

David immediately has second thoughts. It was one thing to blow Lourdes without knowing what he was doing, but the full extent of his experience with anal sex is porn and a few guides, all carefully scrubbed from his browser history. Lourdes has condoms and lube on hand on a night he’s supposed to spend with his family, and he was pretty obviously used to a dick in his mouth by the time he swallowed David’s. The last thing David needs is to give Lourdes more ammunition.

Lourdes’ smile fades. “We don’t have to,” he says, like he’s placating David. “We could just hang, get room service, watch a movie or something.”

“No,” David snaps. He’s not fucking scared. He won’t let himself be. “Just — just get on the bed.”

“‘kay,” Lourdes says, shrugs his jacket off and lets it hit the floor, like it doesn’t even matter. He tugs his tie free so he can start unbuttoning his shirt, and David gets caught watching him, the slow reveal of his throat, his collarbones, before he looks away and sheds his own jacket, laying it on the bureau, taking off the cufflinks Dave bought him before the draft, the ones he’d decided were lucky. He puts them in his right pocket beside his useless speech, thinking maybe he should just throw them out. Or give them to Lourdes, because each time David’s worn them, Lourdes has won, left him with second place.

By the time David’s down to his briefs, Lourdes is as well, looking almost uncertain. “C’mere?” he says, and David walks over, doesn’t flinch when Lourdes puts a hand on his jaw, pulls him in for a kiss, though he pulls back before Lourdes can deepen it.

“David,” Lourdes says, lips almost brushing David’s, and David wants to tell him he’s not allowed to call him that either, but it emphatically does not feel like the time.

“Lie down,” David says, instead, and Lourdes does, shifting his hips up to slide his underwear off, cock half-hard, plumped up against his belly. David stares for a second until Lourdes shifts, and when David meets his eyes, Lourdes’ cheeks are flushed.

“Can you just—” Lourdes says, and David kneels on the bed, curving one hand over Lourdes’ knee, incongruously skinny when he’s muscle everywhere else, broader than David, who can’t put more weight on no matter how hard he tries, reaching out for the small bottle, which is indeed lube, and slicking his fingers.

“Turn on your stomach,” David says quietly, and Lourdes does, grabbing a pillow and sliding it under his hips, which David wouldn’t have thought of.