“Are you,” Tom says slowly, breathily, eyes growing darker, “going to do anything about it? Are you going to fuck me or something? Fuck me hard or whatever little sordid fantasy you’ve got in that thick skull of yours?”
Chris opens his mouth, shuts it with an audible clink of teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. Now he feels his ears and neck prickling with warmth.
“I’m not going to--”
“Good, because as if I’d let you,” Tom says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
“What,” Chris splutters. “Well, excuse me. I’m not the one like, gagging for it. I’m not the one with the fucking hard-on. You know what your problem is?”
Now he’s royally pissed Chris off. Chris resists the undeniable urge to grab Tom by the shirt and shake him a few times.
“Well?” says Tom patiently. “Tell me what my problem is Chris since you’re such an expert on figuring people out.”
Tom shoots him an expectant look. Chris decides to go for broke and grabs Tom by the back of his head to kiss him.
And that, that shuts Tom up actually who sinks against him with a muffled noise of protest as Chris curls his tongue inside his mouth and tilts Tom’s head back to kiss him deeper. Tom lets out a startled grunt when Chris pulls back seconds later, eyes half lidded and mouth slippery wet.
Chris wants to fuck that dreamy look off his face, fit his cock into that perfect warm little mouth but swallows down the filthy urge to just take Tom then and there.
There’s a time and place for everything, and he doesn’t want to give in this soon into the game. Because that’s what it is, what it has always been since day one, the constant push and pull: a game.
And Chris is nothing if not fucking competitive. He always plays to win.
So he lets Tom go, watching the subtle shift in Tom’s expression as he watches the slow descent of Chris’ hand from his shoulder down to his wrist. Chris turns Tom’s hand over and traces the deep lines of his palms with a finger. Tom shivers, swallows visibly, doesn’t speak.
“You’re going to want it,” Chris tells him in a whisper, leaning in close so that his cheek brushes Tom’s curls. “I’m going to make you beg for my cock. I’m going to spread you open and eat you out and you’re going to like it so much that you’ll come so hard just from it. ”
Tom laughs softly, but the sound is edged with nervous worry. His eyes dart quickly to where Chris’ other hand is curved loosely against his inner thigh. Chris rubs up a few times and a trembling noise escapes Tom who grabs hold of Chris’ shoulder so he could steady himself on his feet.
But Tom meets his gaze squarely. “All bark and no bite,” he says with a wry smile. “If you really want to fuck me...” He leans in forward, a mimicry of Chris’ earlier approach and touches the tip of his tongue to the whorls of Chris’ ear, delighting in Chris’ little shiver. “You’re going to have to work hard for it, Chris. Because I’m not very easy to please, despite what you may think.”
Then he steps back, a spring in his step, watching Chris watch him back.
A beat passes, and then: the two of them lunge at each other, mouths fusing, Tom winding his fingers through Chris’ hair, Chris hoisting Tom’s legs up his waist as he maneuvers the two of them to bedroom and tips Tom into the bed where Tom sprawls, legs spread, panting and grinning wickedly and crooking his finger up at Chris.
Chris opens his mouth, shuts it with an audible clink of teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. Now he feels his ears and neck prickling with warmth.
“I’m not going to--”
“Good, because as if I’d let you,” Tom says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
“What,” Chris splutters. “Well, excuse me. I’m not the one like, gagging for it. I’m not the one with the fucking hard-on. You know what your problem is?”
Now he’s royally pissed Chris off. Chris resists the undeniable urge to grab Tom by the shirt and shake him a few times.
“Well?” says Tom patiently. “Tell me what my problem is Chris since you’re such an expert on figuring people out.”
Tom shoots him an expectant look. Chris decides to go for broke and grabs Tom by the back of his head to kiss him.
And that, that shuts Tom up actually who sinks against him with a muffled noise of protest as Chris curls his tongue inside his mouth and tilts Tom’s head back to kiss him deeper. Tom lets out a startled grunt when Chris pulls back seconds later, eyes half lidded and mouth slippery wet.
Chris wants to fuck that dreamy look off his face, fit his cock into that perfect warm little mouth but swallows down the filthy urge to just take Tom then and there.
There’s a time and place for everything, and he doesn’t want to give in this soon into the game. Because that’s what it is, what it has always been since day one, the constant push and pull: a game.
And Chris is nothing if not fucking competitive. He always plays to win.
So he lets Tom go, watching the subtle shift in Tom’s expression as he watches the slow descent of Chris’ hand from his shoulder down to his wrist. Chris turns Tom’s hand over and traces the deep lines of his palms with a finger. Tom shivers, swallows visibly, doesn’t speak.
“You’re going to want it,” Chris tells him in a whisper, leaning in close so that his cheek brushes Tom’s curls. “I’m going to make you beg for my cock. I’m going to spread you open and eat you out and you’re going to like it so much that you’ll come so hard just from it. ”
Tom laughs softly, but the sound is edged with nervous worry. His eyes dart quickly to where Chris’ other hand is curved loosely against his inner thigh. Chris rubs up a few times and a trembling noise escapes Tom who grabs hold of Chris’ shoulder so he could steady himself on his feet.
But Tom meets his gaze squarely. “All bark and no bite,” he says with a wry smile. “If you really want to fuck me...” He leans in forward, a mimicry of Chris’ earlier approach and touches the tip of his tongue to the whorls of Chris’ ear, delighting in Chris’ little shiver. “You’re going to have to work hard for it, Chris. Because I’m not very easy to please, despite what you may think.”
Then he steps back, a spring in his step, watching Chris watch him back.
A beat passes, and then: the two of them lunge at each other, mouths fusing, Tom winding his fingers through Chris’ hair, Chris hoisting Tom’s legs up his waist as he maneuvers the two of them to bedroom and tips Tom into the bed where Tom sprawls, legs spread, panting and grinning wickedly and crooking his finger up at Chris.
The game is on.
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