Shaw didn’t know. He didn’t have any idea.

Matty undid the last button and wriggled free of the shirt, his skin smooth and glowing in the street light, the faint definition to his chest rising and falling with surprisingly even breaths. The part of Shaw’s brain that sounded like Dr. Farr was saying that this was probably good for Matty, probably good for Matty to be the one in control, to be the experienced one, and all of that made perfectly rational sense. But the rest of Shaw’s brain was basically just a series of lightning strikes, and that rational voice didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Matty’s hands moved to Shaw’s waistband again, fumbling with the clasp at the front, and the way Shaw’s whole body hitched like someone had thrown a noose around his neck and tried to pull him straight into the air.

“I’m sorry,” Shaw tried to say, but it came out in a stutter of noises that he wasn’t sure made any sense.

“Ok,” Matty said, “it’s ok,” and his hands dropped away and found Shaw’s, carried them to Matty’s chest, placed one on Matty’s right nipple and the other on a frail clavicle that might have been a bird’s wing. “I like it when you touch me here,” Matty breathed. “And here.”

His skin was smooth, except for the pebbled tension of the nipple, and Shaw let himself pinch once, and Matty’s groan made Shaw’s dick throb so hard he thought, for one panicked instant, that he was coming.

“Yes,” Matty moaned, turning to nuzzle Shaw’s hand on his neck. “Please.” He reached up, found Shaw’s face, and pulled him down. “Kiss me.” He traced the skin where his neck joined his shoulder. “Right here, right—ah!” The sound was so exquisitely pleased that Shaw actually pulled away, convinced he had somehow hurt Matty. Then he saw the blissed-out face, felt the stiffened nipple under his hand, twisted again. Harder this time. And Matty whimpered, bucking up against Shaw’s weight, his head thrown back while Shaw kissed and sucked and bit.

It might have gone on like that forever except Matty had tricky hands, and somehow he had bunched up Shaw’s Lululemon shirt, and his fingers slid down Shaw’s chest, tugging on the wiry hair, caressing the faint hint of abs that no amount of exercise could bring out, gliding back up, tweaking one nipple, then the next, and Shaw could hear his own breath, wild and frantic.

“Not a nipple guy, huh?” Matty said with a smile.

“I’m sorry.”

Matty kissed him on the lips. Kissed the side of his mouth. Kissed his cheek. Kissed his jaw. Kissed his ear. Slid his tongue inside Shaw’s ear, and Shaw heard someone squeal, just fucking squeal, and he thrust into Matty so hard that both of them bounced off the back of the couch.

“I’m—I’m—I’m—”

He was still sputtering when Matty dragged the shirt over his head, and the rush of air across Shaw’s shoulders made him tremble. Matty leaned up, grinding into Shaw, the hardness between Matty’s legs making Shaw burn like he had a firebrand down the front of his pants. His hands slipped behind Shaw’s head, and Shaw felt a faint tug on his bun, and then Matty paused, a question in his eyes.