With the change of position, Lucas wails. His hand reaches up, back over his shoulder, and he grabs a hold of Sam’s curly locks at the crown of his head. He pulls, and Sam follows, his mouth landing at the junction between neck and shoulder.
Sam laps at the skin, nipping it and kissing. They aren’tsupposed to kiss, but he’s intoxicated, addicted to the salty taste of tender flesh as he plunges deeper.
Lucas whimpers, his free hand falling to rest over Sam’s grip on his hip. Slowly, so slowly, the smaller man rocks back to meet him, encouraging Sam to pick up the pace, chasing his own high.
Anything for Lucas.
Sam’s grip tightens as he thrusts faster. They’re sweaty chest to sculpted back and every one of Lucas's punched-out breaths, every high-pitched inhale, is loud, no longer muffled into the mattress.
Sam continues to drive forward as his hand wanders up. His steely arm crosses Lucas’s sticky warm chest and holds him tighter to himself. His free hand finds Lucas’s neglected, dripping wet cock, and he pumps in time with his stilted movements.
The smaller man keens louder, sobbing as he sags against Sam’s stone grip. He doesn’t fight for control over his cock—he lets his teammate take care of him as he traces a shaky hand over Sam’s forearm.
He’s beautiful like this—positively wrecked and lost in the throes of passion. More beautiful than Sam could have ever dreamed.
Sam bites down on the shoulder in front of him, burying himself deep while working Lucas’s cock with his lube-covered hand.
“Merde, merde, ah, ouais!” That doesn’t sound like German. “Fuck,Rafael!”
Rafael?
Lucas comes in Sam’s fist, spilling over onto the bed. Once he’s milked dry, he collapses backwards, into Sam.
Sam steadies him, but as his head lolls to the side, it’s Thomas’s face that greets him.
It’s Thomas’s ass he’s buried in.
Fuck, he actually forgot.
“Do not stop,” Thomas demands with a breathy whine. “Push me forward, finish in me.”
Sam’s not exactly sure what to do now that he’s lost the fantasy. He’s not soft—not even a little bit—but it’s like, weird to fuck his childhood rival, right? Especially since the man in front of him is, without a doubt,definitelyThomas.
The Ferraro driver throws himself forward, back into that sexy little arch. Even if he can go back to sorta looking like Lucas, he sounds nothing like him.
—and post-orgasm Thomas isn’t exactly quiet.
“Fuck, you are sobig.” Thomas moans and his chest sinks further into the mattress. “Where the hell do you hide that thing inside your race suit?”
Zatzing in-zide your race-zoot.
Just imagine it’s Lucas. He’s still Lucas.
Sam gives a tentative thrust forward and Thomas mewls. “And you hit my prostate every time. Everysingletime! With every thrust!”
Wizz ev’ry zrust!
Honestly though, the compliments are kinda doing it for Sam—however French they may sound. He picks up the pace, spreading Thomas’s cheeks as he drives into him.
“And zhat—’owyousay—’it? Smack?”
“Spank?”
“Yes, yes,ouais, merde. Like my whole body izzon fire. I can still feel it.”
Sam hesitantly grasps the reddened cheek. It lost the definition of his fingers, but it still looks painful. “You like that?”
“Uuuhn,c’est bon!”
