His upper body is turned, almost contorted all the way around so he can watch as he holds himself open. Those big, unyielding eyes stare up at him in reverence, like Sam is some holy person who has blessed him.
It’s blinding, almost. The awe. The adoration.
Then Thomas’s eyes break away, travelling downwards to watch Sam’s cock as he pumps it.
Sam spills, shooting his load in ropes over Thomas’s reddened, sloppy hole.
It’s too much—way too much—and Sam stumbles forward, catching himself on Thomas before rolling over onto the narrow sliver of space to the left of him.
Don’t get cum on the right side.
Sam heaves as he tries to sort out which parts were Lucas and which were Thomas.
He's such an idiot—it all was Thomas. It always is.
He balances on his side, nearly hanging off the bed, with his boxers still around his ankles. “You didn’t fall asleep, right?”
“No, I did not.” Thomas props himself up, turning to face Sam. He’s glowing again, and it looks good on him. “I need to clean myself up.”
Sam grumbles, his eyes falling shut. “I’m just gonna nap real quick. Just a little and I can help.”
“Sleep. I do not need help.” The bed shifts as Thomas wiggles his way down the mattress and over to the en suite.
Sam wakes up under the covers. His dick is tucked back into his boxers and he feels wiped clean. Thomas is tucked up against his side, using his shoulder as a pillow, his arm crossed over Sam’s chest.
Well, it’d be rude to leave now. Sam lets himself fall back asleep.
He wakes up again, much later, to the sound of a luggage zipper. Sam takes a moment to stretch, popping his back and neck, before subjecting himself to the bright light of the room.
Thomas is bent over, rummaging through his suitcase. He has a towel around his middle, and steam rolls in from the bathroom.
Sam sits up in the bed and lets the covers bunch up around his waist. Since Thomas hasn’t noticed him yet, he should have a little fun.
“Buenos días,” he says in his best Rafael impression. A little deeper, a little more suave.
Thomas’s head pops up, but when he turns to the bed he looks confused, not turned on. “What was that supposed to be?”
“Oh, c’mon! I thought you’d like it—it’s Spanish.”
Thomas blinks his giant eyes. “I am French.”
“Trust me, I know.” He’s not exactly subtle. “It’s for Rafael, y’know? Cause of the thing we have going on?”
“Brazilians do not speak Spanish.”
“What?” Sam thought Thomas was smart. “Well, they don’t speakBrazilian.”
More blinks. “They speak Portuguese.”
“Brazil isn’t anywhere near Portugal.” Right? Sam’s pretty sure he’s right, but all of South America kinda confuses him. “Oh, is his family Portuguese maybe?”
Thomas murmurs under his breath before standing up, clothes draped over his arm.
“There’s breakfast out there.” Thomas isn’t shy—he drops his towel and steps into shorts. “I heard them set it up, but I do not know what it is yet. Help yourself.”
“You’re not wearing underwear?” Sam’s pretty sure Thomas said something, but this feels more important.
“Never do—I hate sweaty balls.” Thomas pulls a shirt over his head—Ferraro red. “You might want to grab something to go, we slept late.”
