[ There's a full assault on his senses in every direction, so you'll excuse him if it takes a moment to form words again. Before his answer, it's just a moan, long and loud in a way he's not typically allowed to be. Tim catches the hand playing with his nipple, holding it there, asking again for more. ]
No, good surprise. Good surprise.
[ He understands too easily, that if Tim were a man more prone to suspicion, he’d think that this is too good to be true. Not just when it comes to the brief case of mistaken identity, how it slides off him like the water Tim sloshes onto his chest with every movement, but he understands exactly what it is he needs in this moment. The seductive pacing, the pretty words, just how he wants to be held. It’s uncanny.
(Later, when he replays all his choices tonight in his head in the fluorescent lighting of a hospital room, he’ll take that as evidence that it wasn’t a huge mistake, just an awful flaw of timing. Quentin was nothing but good to him. They connected. He can’t blame him for what happened while Tim was distracted.)
Loathe as he is to stop what he’s doing, the man speaks the truth. He nods in acceptance, and gives him one last kiss, firm and needy, drawing out his lower lip between his own, before lifting himself up and off his lap. Tim works quickly at getting his shorts off, only slowing to be a little more careful pulling his cock free of them. He approaches the wall and throws them up on the ledge next to his glasses, the sounds of wet fabric dropping and something metal jangling in his pocket echoing through the place with the sounds of splashing and other pairs seeking pleasure.
Tim reaches for Quentin and urges him to his feet too, holding him by the hands and stepping back, sandwiching himself between him and the wall before his hands start to wander up the expanse of his chest. The metal bar in his nipple is something novel to Tim, he runs his thumb over it experimentally, looking to the other man for a reaction. ]
You can hold me by the thighs.
[ Raging desire masked as simply permission, but too specific, too pleading to be masked very well. ]
no subject
No, good surprise. Good surprise.
[ He understands too easily, that if Tim were a man more prone to suspicion, he’d think that this is too good to be true. Not just when it comes to the brief case of mistaken identity, how it slides off him like the water Tim sloshes onto his chest with every movement, but he understands exactly what it is he needs in this moment. The seductive pacing, the pretty words, just how he wants to be held. It’s uncanny.
(Later, when he replays all his choices tonight in his head in the fluorescent lighting of a hospital room, he’ll take that as evidence that it wasn’t a huge mistake, just an awful flaw of timing. Quentin was nothing but good to him. They connected. He can’t blame him for what happened while Tim was distracted.)
Loathe as he is to stop what he’s doing, the man speaks the truth. He nods in acceptance, and gives him one last kiss, firm and needy, drawing out his lower lip between his own, before lifting himself up and off his lap. Tim works quickly at getting his shorts off, only slowing to be a little more careful pulling his cock free of them. He approaches the wall and throws them up on the ledge next to his glasses, the sounds of wet fabric dropping and something metal jangling in his pocket echoing through the place with the sounds of splashing and other pairs seeking pleasure.
Tim reaches for Quentin and urges him to his feet too, holding him by the hands and stepping back, sandwiching himself between him and the wall before his hands start to wander up the expanse of his chest. The metal bar in his nipple is something novel to Tim, he runs his thumb over it experimentally, looking to the other man for a reaction. ]
You can hold me by the thighs.
[ Raging desire masked as simply permission, but too specific, too pleading to be masked very well. ]