North could feel a smile building, and before it could give him away, he bent and kissed Shaw, cutting off the ridiculous flow of words. That kiss turned into another, and that one into another, growing like flames along fresh coals. Shaw’s mouth was needy, his hands desperate, fumbling at North’s shirt. He whimpered and mewled and arched against North’s touch as North slid his hand up under the chambray and caressed that spot low on Shaw’s belly that drove him wild. Every time was like the first time.

“Tell me I won,” North whispered when he broke their next kiss.

“That’s not fair,” Shaw wailed, the words rising in pitch as North palpated that tender spot on Shaw’s belly just above the patch of auburn fuzz. “North.”

“Yeah, baby, that’s my name.” North nuzzled the side of Shaw’s neck, nipping, licking, kissing, sucking. “Tell me I won.”

“No,” Shaw managed to get out, stumbling backward, shaking his head so hard that his chestnut hair tumbled loose. North got the last button on the chambray shirt and turned Shaw out of it, catching the man a moment later, rubbing low on Shaw’s stomach, clutching the other man to his chest so that Shaw couldn’t wiggle away. “No,” Shaw said again, turning his head, exposing his neck to North’s assault again. He mewled, arching his back, his slender frame taut with pleasure that couldn’t quite find release. “No, North—North—North!”

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, baby.” North gathered Shaw’s hair, kissing a line up to Shaw’s jaw, grinding against Shaw through denim and the thin athletic fabric of the joggers. It was just enough friction, just enough restriction, just enough frustration that it was ten times hotter than North ever remembered sex being. It was always like that with Shaw—as though the freshness of the experience for the chestnut-haired man could somehow communicate itself to North, as though every time were his first time too. The way he wanted it to be with Shaw: no shadows, no memories, no past.