“Maybe you wanted to see me tied up with a bolt of lace.”

Lance’s response is just a sigh. Robbie smiles at the feeling of his cock filling in his hand as he gently massages the shaft, thick even in repose, and tugs on his heavy balls. Definitely a mouthful, but he’s sure, now, that he could manage both. The idea makes him salivate more than a steak dinner ever could.

“I liked that one.” He pushes his nose against the spot where Lance marked himself with the soap, but the scent is lost for now. He only smells salt and Lance, and maybe an undercurrent of cum, which is undeniably in the air.

“You like me when I’m pretty?” Lance asks, sounding breathless, and Robbie’s cock is quickly hardening again, pressed against the perfect ass that’s nestled against him.

“Yes,” he admits.

Lance leans his head far to the side, presenting his neck again, like an offering, and Robbie is helpless to do anything but bend and suck on the white skin there, tonguing a fine blue vein as he, unbelievably, starts getting hard again—something that hasn’t happened to him in such close succession since…ever.

“That’s why you brought me that nice soap. You want me to smell pretty. You want me in lace. Maybe panties. What about stockings, would you—fuck, fuck, fuck,” Lance interrupts himself with a string of hissed curses as Robbie, acting purely on instinct, pushes his hand past his balls and probes the hot, lightly-furred skin around his asshole. Lance groans like it’s his cock there and not just his fingertip, and Robbie, head full of a reel of fantasies, contains himself to just stroking, pressing. Knowing he is miserably lacking required knowledge to do more than that.

Then, Lance’s hand covers his and guides him. Lance’s fingertip pushes Robbie’s deftly against Lance’s incredibly tight hole, the tiny ridges of skin strange and tantalizing, until the muscle yields and Robbie’s forefinger is inside him, just to the first knuckle, and dry, but it’s still an overwhelming heat and pressure, especially because Robbie is already thinking about what it would be like to have his cock where his finger is.

He makes a ragged sound against Lance’s neck. Lance has hooked his own arm around the back of his own thigh, holding himself within Robbie’s reach, holding himself open. Robbie is overcome, somewhere between tears and laughter, feeling some kind of shocked joy. He’s also perilously close to having a second orgasm in his jeans, which might be further into martyrdom than he’s willing to travel.

But before that thought can complete itself, Lance, perfect Lance, is guiding Robbie’s hand again, this time drawing it away from Lance’s body. Then, Lance turns over between Robbie’s legs like a panther, and in a show of strength that reminds Robbie that he’s earned all of those ridges of lean muscle on practically every inch of his body, he jerks back the sheets and lifts Robbie’s hips easily, divesting him quickly of his jeans and boxers, and he swallows Robbie to the root with the same kind of anticipatory noise that someone makes when they’re very hungry and presented with a meal.