Sam has only ever been on the wrong side of a Thomas monologue, but this? He could get used to this.
He grasps Thomas’s hips and uses them as leverage, pumping into him faster, faster,faster, until he stills, buried to the hiltinside of him. His orgasm is a wave thatcrashesinto him, knocking Sam forward as he spills everything he has into the smaller man.
Thomas cries out with him—probably oversensitive by now. He’s a good sport for holding out until Sam finished. Sam should like, thank him or something.
Instead, he lets go. As he collapses onto the sweaty body in front of him, somewhere in the back of his mind he’s surprised lithe, little Thomas is strong enough to catch his weight.
Sam’s still inside him, but he’s not ready to pull out quite yet. Maybe once he gets feeling back in his thighs. Maybe never. Maybe this is just how they are now.
Racing might be a little more difficult, but they can figure it out.
The Frenchman slides downwards slowly, until they’re laying flat on the bed.“Merci,”he whispers.
Sam grunts out in reply.
“Oh, let me—” Thomas shifts and Sam cries out as his dick finally slides free. “Shh, shh, it is okay. Let me clean you up.”
Sam’s fading fast, but he has some awareness when his condom is removed and immediately replaced by a warm, wet towel. His hands get the same towel treatment, his chest, his biceps. After he’s received the equivalent of an entire sponge bath, his brain has finally rebooted and reconnected.
He’s even sitting up by the time Thomas returns from the bathroom.
“Oh! I thought you would be asleep.” Thomas is radiant, smiling as big as any time he’s won a race. “Would you like to sleep here? Plenty of space.”
That seems dangerous somehow. Waking up to Thomas’s sleeping face would be another nail in Sam’s coffin—he already has too many revelations to sort through.
Number one: Was Thomassexy?!
“I should really get going.” Sam sways when he stands and Thomas rushes over to steady him.
Fuck. Sam is fucked.
“At least let me help you.”
When Sam’s stable again, Thomas collects his clothes. He turns the shirt right side out and hands it to him. His boxers next.
It’s oddly domestic.
Sam just focuses on putting his limbs through the correct holes.
“I thought you would have said his name.” Thomas sounds eerily similar to how he does after racing. Sam wasn't expecting post-sex commentary. “When you came. Or any other time before that, really.”
“I didn’t?”
Of course he didn’t. By the time Sam came, the fantasy of Lucas had long disappeared.
Thank God he didn’t say any name at all—there’s no telling how Thomas would have reacted if Sam belted out “Big Toe!” when he blew his load.
Thomas shakes his head in reply and holds Sam’s jeans open so he can step into them. He’s surprised when Thomas pulls them straight up, tucking his dick to the left before zipping.
“You guessed which way I hang?”
There was a fifty/fifty chance he’d get it right, but those hands had been too steady for a toss-up.
“No, I knew already.”
Sam’s brain lags too far behind to figure out if that’s normal information for rivals to have on each other. “Yeah, okay.”
Thomas steps back into his sweatpants and walks Sam to the outer door of his suite. “Do not forget your expensive wine.”
