[ as they move from tseng's jaw and down his throat, rufus' fingertips leave trails of sensation in their wake—heat, sensitivity, the awareness of being touched by another person. it's a gentler touch than tseng is used to, and it sends heat through him, curling like smoke up from his lower belly and out to the tips of his fingers where they're brushing over rufus' warm skin.
when they pull apart, rufus' mouth is wet and gorgeous and tseng catches himself on the desire to lean back in and seal their lips together again, to kiss rufus until he gives in. they're still operating on the premise of something like a business transaction, after all. tseng contents himself with casting his gaze over rufus' face, his coloring making the beginnings of a flush in his cheeks all the more obvious.
without stepping back, tseng releases rufus' waist and reaches for the hem of his own shirt instead, tugs it up over his head and tosses it to the side. his jeans stay where they are—there's a practical angle to having his shirt off, if rufus is going to sit on his face, but there's no need to remove his pants for that. (plus, the thicker fabric will make a better secret of how tseng is responding to this, physically.)
his hands return to rufus' waist, then. this time, his palms skim up from that narrow waist to the broader span of his chest, and his thumbs find the hardening peaks of his nipples to rub over them, slow and indulgent. it's a presumptuous touch, but there's no apology in tseng's expression—rufus did tell him to handle it, after all. ]
no subject
when they pull apart, rufus' mouth is wet and gorgeous and tseng catches himself on the desire to lean back in and seal their lips together again, to kiss rufus until he gives in. they're still operating on the premise of something like a business transaction, after all. tseng contents himself with casting his gaze over rufus' face, his coloring making the beginnings of a flush in his cheeks all the more obvious.
without stepping back, tseng releases rufus' waist and reaches for the hem of his own shirt instead, tugs it up over his head and tosses it to the side. his jeans stay where they are—there's a practical angle to having his shirt off, if rufus is going to sit on his face, but there's no need to remove his pants for that. (plus, the thicker fabric will make a better secret of how tseng is responding to this, physically.)
his hands return to rufus' waist, then. this time, his palms skim up from that narrow waist to the broader span of his chest, and his thumbs find the hardening peaks of his nipples to rub over them, slow and indulgent. it's a presumptuous touch, but there's no apology in tseng's expression—rufus did tell him to handle it, after all. ]