Games We Play

Running Blind

Rye can't help but press forward when Andy's lips envelop the head of his cock.

****

"Never in a million years," Rye whispers hoarsely, staring sightless up toward the ceiling. He rubs a hand over his belly, dipping low enough to catch the barest brush of hair.

"Not even once, did I ever imagine," he lifts his head and looks down his body, "that Andy frigging Fowler would be a fricking genius at giving head. Never crossed my mind, but mate..."

Andy backs off of Rye's dick with an obscene pop and stares up at him with dark, irritated eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

"What?" Rye leans up on his elbows. "It's a compliment."

"It's literally not." Andy pulls his knees up under him. He's knelt between Rye's legs with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth in a thin, annoyed line.

"Yes, it is!" Rye defends. He sits up and reaches for Andy, and tries to unfold those stiff arms. "You really are rather good at it."

"If that were true," Andy shakes his head, disbelieving, "then why do you feel the need to fill the space with your rambling? Why can't you just Shut Up, Rye?"

Rye scoots closer until he and Andy are nearly nose to nose and Andy is fit perfectly between Rye's knees.

"Because," Rye says, smoothing his hands down the backs of Andy's upper arms, watching them glide over Andy's soft skin. "Because I'm nervous."

"You're nervous?"

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Andy shrugs. "Because it's you."

"Awww, that's so cute."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"I'm not." Rye slides his hand across Andy's shoulder and up his neck, pulling him closer until their lips meet.

And when Andy surges up to meet him, and he wraps his arms Rye's shoulders, their bodies slide together, sending blissful currents down Rye's back, straight to his groin. Rye groans into Andy's mouth, and Andy answers with a whine of his own.

Gripping Rye's back tightly, Andy rocks up, their dicks trapped between warm, flat bellies; slick with a combination of precome and Andy's spit. But it's not enough.

"Do you have lube?" Andy breathes into Rye's neck, mouthing along his jawline.

"Lube," Rye snorts, finding humor in the way the word sounds on Andy's tongue.

Andy sighs, pushing away to cast an exasperated look Rye's way. Again.

"Yes, yes," Rye chides. "Of course there's looob," he says, drawing to word and pulling a face. "It's in the drawer, there."

He points to the little bedside table sat between the two beds. Andy pushes him back down into the mattress and is then climbing and stretching over Rye to reach into the drawer.

There are miles of skin filling Rye's view; too much of a temptation to ignore, so he wraps an arm around Andy's thigh and brings his mouth to the finishing curve of Andy's buttock, working quickly to leave a mark on the flawless skin. He smiles with satisfaction when Andy doesn't even bother to swat him away and smiles again when he sees the color blooming within the love bite.

"Watermelon lube?" Andy's voice is indignant as he sits back on his knees. "Why have you got watermelon lube?"

"Not, mine. It's Harvey's, innit."