“Great!” His shoulders slump with relief. “Okay, how?”
“Blow job.”
“I will send you my room number as soon as I am back to my phone.”
“No, now.”
Thomas cracks an unsteady smile. “But I do not remember my room number right now. I will send it as soon?—”
“No.” Sam points to the ground, in front of his feet. “I want your mouth here, in my driver’s room. Suck my cock in your race suit.Forza Ferraro.”
Thomas’s mouth drops open a little too early—he’s still standing and everything. “I cannot—I cannot do that.”
“Then don’t.” Sam shrugs. “If it doesn’t matter to you, then it doesn’t matter to me.”
“But the walls are so thin. You do not have a ceiling!”
Sam looks up like he never noticed they were standing in a glorified cubicle. “I bet you’d make less noise if your mouth was full of cock.”
Thomas’s gaping mouth and wide eyes are entirely too shocked for Sam’s taste. He’s an enthusiastic consent type of dude. “Look, if you really don’t want to, it’s fine.”
“No. No, I—I messed up.” Thomas drops to his knees. Right there. In Sam’s driver’s room. “I want forgiveness.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
“You sure?” Sam asks, already reaching into his race suit. He yanks down the waistband of his fireproofs, wiggling his hips to help it along.
“Yeah, just—” Thomas looks up with those big saucer eyes and Sam’s heart skips a beat. “Go gently. We still have press.”
Sam finally frees his cock and shoves the rest of the tight, navy fabric further down. He jerks himself a couple of times, though it won't take much to get fully hard with Thomas looking like that.
Thomas stares at it, transfixed, and Sam feels like he’s king of the world. “I’ve got one stipulation.”
Thomas’s eyebrows furrow. “I do not know what this means.”
Right. English. Third language.
“A rule for you to follow.”
He huffs. “I am already like this.” Thomas gestures down as if Sam could possibly miss that he is on his knees in his race kit.
“I want you to look at me.” Sam cups Thomas’s jaw with the hand that isn’t busy and tilts his face up. “Don’t pretend I’mRafael. Sam Campbell’s the guy fuckin’ your throat—don’t forget it.”
Thomas swallows against Sam’s palm and nods. His dark, unblinking eyes stay glued to Sam’s face.
“Good.”
Thomas is pliant when Sam works his mouth open. His hand keeps a firm hold under his jaw as Sam lines his cockhead up to the Ferraro driver’s lips and eases into the heat.
The stretch of the intrusion contorts Thomas’s pretty face, elongating it and emphasizing his sharp cheekbones. His hollow cheeks balloon outwards, the thin skin stretching to mold around Sam’s girth.
“Watch your teeth. You like this cock, treat it nice.”
Thomas pulls back just enough to cover his sharp lower teeth with his tongue and dives back in. His signature whine is muffled, but he relaxes his jaw and continues to take more.
Tears form in the corners of Thomas’s eyes, and saliva drips from the taut edges of his mouth, running down his chin.
