Lance feels incandescent at the admission, and also unspeakably tender. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly. The reality of taking Robbie somewhere unfamiliar is exponentially more intense than his earlier daydream. “Please, please, please. I want you so much.”

Robbie doesn’t protest as Lance separates them enough to drop his hands to Robbie’s fly, then his. Lance thinks Robbie might startle if given the chance, so he doesn’t bother getting himself out; he just reaches into Robbie’s boxers and circles his hardness with his hand. He feels silky and thick, slightly curved. Lance strokes him slowly, feeling every bump and vein—another part of Robbie he wants to memorize.

“Oh my God,” Robbie says hoarsely, clutching Lance’s hips. With the jeans loosened, his hands are now closing around Lance’s bare skin and the hem of the threadbare old boxers he fished out of Johnny’s drawers. “You can’t…I’m not going to last long,” he warns.

Lance hums approvingly, and then, because he wants to be able to take his time and he’s more or less assured that Robbie isn’t going anywhere, he lets go of his cock, an exercise of sheer willpower, and nods toward the bed. “Lie down,” he says, the word emerging as a low command.

Chapter Eighteen

Robbie

Robbie crawls onto the bed and turns over to face Lance, finding him already on the bed and moving, walking on his knees into the space between Robbie’s spread legs. Their eyes meet, and Robbie swallows.

His hands are already reaching for Lance; he makes them a cage around Lance’s lean hips and his forefingers brush together low on Lance’s waist, easily spanning his slender torso. Robbie’s so hard that he hurts.

Lance’s blue eyes are stormy, his skin flushed as his hands slide up Robbie’s thighs. Lance’s gaze drops to where the tip of Robbie’s cock is protruding past the waistband of his briefs, desperate. He licks his lips, and Robbie’s stomach clenches like he could come apart just from the way Lance is looking at him.

“Let me,” Lance murmurs, slowly bending over until he’s on his hands and knees over Robbie. He nudges Robbie’s cheek, guiding Robbie into tilting his head, and then kisses him again. Robbie kissed Lance before and was kissed back; now, Lance is in the lead, and the act feels different. Fiercer, deeper. Lance presses their lips together before guiding Robbie’s apart, and then he touches the roof of his mouth with a clever tongue. Imagining that skilled mouth at work elsewhere on his body has Robbie’s hips jerking, seeking contact.

Lance notices, of course, and with a satisfied purr, he lowers himself into the cradle of Robbie’s thighs and rolls his narrow hips flush against Robbie’s. What felt good when they were both standing up is excruciatingly perfect when Lance can bear half his body weight against Robbie, rocking into him with incredible pressure.

Robbie has to gasp, which breaks their kiss. Lance meets his eyes, smirks, and lowers his head again. This time, he skips Robbie’s mouth and begins to kiss his way down Robbie’s chest, then farther down, with unmistakable intent. Robbie’s breath hitches, and he tenses. Lance freezes and looks up at him, a flash of fear in his expression. Fear of what, Robbie can only guess—but still, he thinks his guess is pretty good.