“Robbie,” Lance says in a strained voice, pushing Robbie’s hair back as he lifts his head. The smell of male arousal and warm, intimate male skin—that should be familiar, but it’s heady, new when it’s not just Robbie, but Lance. The two of them together.

“What, sweetheart?” Robbie asks, the endearment slipping out. He hears it, and a thread of worry that Lance might not like it stabs at him, but Lance smiles down the line of his body, tucks his lower lip over his bottom teeth, and bites down. Robbie wants to kiss him again, but he stays between his legs for now, well-aware that that’s where he’s needed most at the moment.

“If you keep going,” Lance begins, and then cuts himself off with a gasp as Robbie licks down his shaft and nuzzles in fascination at his balls, wondering if getting both of them in his mouth would be as easy as it looks in porn, “you’re going to make me come.”

Robbie smiles up at him. “Isn’t that the point?” he asks, and puts his mouth on Lance’s cock again, this time trying to take him a little deeper.

True to his word, Lance comes about thirty seconds after Robbie resumes his fast rhythm of stroking and suction. He pulls back so that the cum lands on his tongue instead of his throat, which isn’t as distasteful as he’d expected—especially when it’s accompanied by Lance’s hoarse cry. Robbie feels his heart swell in his chest like he’s just done something worthy of the highest praise, and he slips a hand past his own stomach and finishes himself off in a matter of moments, his forehead against Lance’s thigh.

As Robbie drifts down from his orgasm, Lance strokes his hair. There’s a fleck of cum that must have escaped Robbie’s mouth on Lance’s hip bone, and a cooling, sticky mess in the cup of Robbie’s hand, still tucked under his body. Lance’s thigh is also just as lean and hard as it looks. The position isn’t exactly comfortable, and at the same time, Robbie doesn’t ever want to move.

But.

“Stay right there,” he tells Lance, and then he kisses his knee and gets out of the bed before he can change his mind. The hayloft feels horribly cold after leaving that sex-heated nest, even though Robbie is somehow still wearing his shirt and jeans and boxers, and even his socks. He washes his hands in the bathroom, then runs warm water over an old washcloth that doesn’t have any obvious stains. Still, while he’s never noticed before, it practically has bristles, the pile is so rough. He makes a mental note—new towels—and buttons his jeans and hurries back.

Lance is sitting up, but he hasn’t pulled the blanket around himself. He’s looking out the window at the snow coming down. Robbie’s steps slow, because if someone were here with a camera right now, he knows this image would wind up at the top of those search results he couldn’t stop himself from pulling up earlier.