Chapter Nineteen

Lance

Lance has always enjoyed sex. The basic act, yes, but almost more so, he’s enjoyed the sense of honing a skill that he has an aptitude for. Maybe it’s competitiveness—or a fundamental need to please—but even when he isn’t particularly attracted to a partner, he can still take pleasure in pleasing someone.

With Robbie, though…obviously, with Robbie, it’s different. But not in the way Lance would have expected. Giving Robbie pleasure makes Lance want to smile, to laugh, and to stop and tease not as a strategic delay of gratification, but because it gives him a visceral thrill to hear Robbie curse and beg. And because he must occasionally stop what he’s doing to kiss Robbie’s mouth, rub his cheek against Robbie’s soft beard, and nuzzle the fascinating, thick curls in the center of Robbie’s hard chest. Every time he gets distracted, Lance is sure to keep lazily stroking Robbie’s length, which is wet and warm from Lance’s mouth.

His entire body feels warm and bright from happiness, like he inhaled sunlight along with every breath of air perfumed by Robbie’s skin. In short, there’s a joy in being with Robbie that Lance hasn’t felt before.

Maybe everything is made more intense by the ticking clock. Lance knows that whatever they’re doing together won’t last past Tuesday night, the deadline that Lance has given himself to tell Robbie everything. When Lance does that, he harbors no illusions that Robbie will continue to look at him like he’s some kind of magical creature who could never do wrong.

This stolen time will end soon, which is all the more reason Lance is determined to enjoy it right now.

He pulls his head up again. He’s had Robbie deep in his throat, and his voice is a rasp as a consequence. Robbie’s cock isn’t the biggest one he’s ever sucked, but it’s the biggest one he’s had the privilege of swallowing in a while, and he’s so greedy for it.

But he’s greedier for something else. He meets Robbie’s eye.

“Will you touch me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robbie breathes, stroking Lance’s hair.

Lance smiles at his touch. But that isn’t what he meant. He rearranges himself in silent explanation, straddling Robbie’s chest backward, tugging Robbie’s hand back to his cleft. Lance almost lost it at the idea of Robbie there—Robbie fucking him, even with a dry fingertip. He thinks briefly of lube, but dismisses it. He can’t wait. So, he just spits into his own hand, reaches back, and smears it over his hole.

“Jesus, Lance,” Robbie pants. Lance leans down and takes Robbie’s cock back in his mouth again, this time burying his nose in Robbie’s balls instead of his pubic bone, tilting back his hips in a silent quest for Robbie’s hand, and Robbie—

Robbie puts his mouth to Lance’s hole instead.

Lance almost comes from the shock of it, the intense rush of pleasure an afterthought to the euphoria of his thoughts. Robbie. Robbie’s mouth on him. Robbie’s tongue pushing against him, oh, God—