As each girl prepares him with a line of salt, Owain upturns the tequila bottle over Sam’s mouth for a splash until his face is warm and his limbs are looser.
“I should spit in your face,” the next girl says, with a strong French accent. “For what you ‘ave done to France today.”
French accents shouldn’t turn him on.
“Oui,” Sam replies, grinning. “S’il vous plaît.”
He knows about five words, and he pronounces all five terribly, but it looks like his simple ‘yes, please’ still works for the girl.
Smirking, she palms his cock through his pants. Her eyes bulge like she’s surprised by what she finds there, giving him a small tug. She takes her shot, swallows, licks up his abs, and pulls him upright by the neck. Climbing into his lap, she gives him an authentic French kiss.
Frenchy in the light pink dress, he notes as he surfaces for air.
Once the girls all have a turn, Owain jokes, “It can’t be as good as they made it look. You’re sohairy.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Sam says, with a laugh. He’s had a bit too much tequila for his liking, and he fumbles when he reaches for the bottle to fill up another shot.
“Yeah, good point.” Owain throws back the tequila and grabs Sam’s rod, forgetting it wasn’t part of the process. “How the fuck are you so big?”
“Why’d you think I’d besmall?!”
Owain shrugs and licks up the abs he forgot to salt. He’s not entirely bad at it, the pad of his tongue slippery against the divots of Sam’s muscles. He looks good from above too.
Okay, Sam’s had too much to drink.
He takes the lime slice out of his own mouthand feeds it to Owain before they end up making out on some club table in France.
Owain sucks up the entire slice and chews on the rind as he says, “Thomas, Rafael, you should do that!”
“No.” It’s impossible to tell who says it first.
“Feel his dick, at least.”
“No!”
Sam rolls off the table laughing and hobbles up to his feet. If he’s going to be whored out, at least it came with the satisfaction of people complimenting his dick.
Take that, Rafael.
The girls hold his shirt hostage, but Sam doesn’t fight for it back. He drops into the small space they left for him, to delighted shrieks and playful nudging.
See,thisis his element. This is where he belongs—he’s the life of the party, the one everyone wants.
Sam doesn’t need Thomas. He doesn’t even need Lucas. He is perfectly capable of being happy all by himself, surrounded by women.
He leans towards Green Dress, singling her out. They talk a little about the race—general small talk, really—until she runs her dainty little hand up his thigh and palms his cock.
“It wasn’t fair.” She sounds British, her voice like velvet compared to the music thumping in the background. “Everyone else got to touch.”
Sam’s still half hard from all the attention his dick received, and she massages him like a challenge.
Sam brushes her dark hair behind her ear, letting his fingers graze down her neck, before he leans in. “We can do more than touch.”
Her breath hitches and she nods, her hand grasping the meat of his thigh. “Lemme tell my friends first, hang on.”
She turns and rattles off a couple of sentences to the girlssitting closest to her. They look between Green Dress and Sam with awe and push for her to go.
He doesn’t bother announcing he’s leaving—the guys have a mutual understanding about what happens at these things. He lets himself be pulled up, off the couch and back to the loo.
