[ rufus rocks forward and his body presses against tseng's, chest to hip, one long line of heat that sears through tseng straight to his core. desire flays him open, his breath catching on the inhale, his hands lifting so he can wrap his arms fully around rufus' narrow waist and pull him in so close he can feel rufus' heartbeat against his chest. ]
Yes, sir.
[ there is no mistaking the way that tseng kisses him. it's no careful exploration, no delicate, tender affection—tseng kisses rufus like he's determined to bring rufus to his knees. their lips slide together, wet and messy, all tongue, too much teeth, and it's so fucking good it scrapes tseng raw inside, hollows out a place inside him that only rufus' pleasure can fill. his hands slip up inside the open shirt rufus is wearing; his fingers curl and his nails drag down rufus' spine to the sway of his back, just to feel the way his back arches and presses more firmly against tseng.
he's not thinking about rufus' father. he can't think of anything but the way rufus tastes, sweet, a little tart, or the way his breath sounds when he draws it in through his nose. a thought: are there rules in the general affairs employee handbook about conduct unbecoming, and if so, does fucking the president over his desk fall under them?
one hand comes up to lace through the back of rufus' hair, and tseng pulls firmly, enough so that when he pulls away from rufus' mouth, rufus can neither chase nor withdraw. for a moment, he holds rufus' gaze with singleminded intensity, the dark amber of his own eyes a contrast to the stormy blue of rufus'. tseng couldn't say what he's looking for, but whatever it is, he finds it in the expression on rufus' face—moments later he presses rufus back against the desk, tugs his swim trunks down, and then spins him around to press him face first into the surface of the desk. ]
If you tell me to stop, I will stop, [ he says. ] Short of that, nothing in the world will keep me from making you come.
no subject
Yes, sir.
[ there is no mistaking the way that tseng kisses him. it's no careful exploration, no delicate, tender affection—tseng kisses rufus like he's determined to bring rufus to his knees. their lips slide together, wet and messy, all tongue, too much teeth, and it's so fucking good it scrapes tseng raw inside, hollows out a place inside him that only rufus' pleasure can fill. his hands slip up inside the open shirt rufus is wearing; his fingers curl and his nails drag down rufus' spine to the sway of his back, just to feel the way his back arches and presses more firmly against tseng.
he's not thinking about rufus' father. he can't think of anything but the way rufus tastes, sweet, a little tart, or the way his breath sounds when he draws it in through his nose. a thought: are there rules in the general affairs employee handbook about conduct unbecoming, and if so, does fucking the president over his desk fall under them?
one hand comes up to lace through the back of rufus' hair, and tseng pulls firmly, enough so that when he pulls away from rufus' mouth, rufus can neither chase nor withdraw. for a moment, he holds rufus' gaze with singleminded intensity, the dark amber of his own eyes a contrast to the stormy blue of rufus'. tseng couldn't say what he's looking for, but whatever it is, he finds it in the expression on rufus' face—moments later he presses rufus back against the desk, tugs his swim trunks down, and then spins him around to press him face first into the surface of the desk. ]
If you tell me to stop, I will stop, [ he says. ] Short of that, nothing in the world will keep me from making you come.