He’s so beautiful.
Sam knows he’s bigger than most, so he only pushes himself half-deep. “Suck it, Thomas.”
Thomas’s lips fasten, forming a tight seal around Sam’s cock, and his eyes flutter close as he sucks.
“Hhhnnn!”
Sam’s stomach swoops as Thomas’s cheeks hollow further, wrapping around Sam’s member andpulling, completely encompassing him in his warm, wet grip.
When he starts bobbing his head, Sam tenses, his own mouth falling open on a long groan.
His grip slides up from under Thomas's jaw, the length of his thumb now resting against the smaller man’s cheekbone. With the rocking motion, his own cock fucks against his palm. Thomas’shead bobs faster and deeper, pulling himself further down his length.
Sam’s hand wraps around his base, both to keep pressure on it and to stop himself from fucking forward too far. His fingers are quickly covered in saliva as Thomas moves, drool sliding down his knob and pooling around his fist.
Thomas hastily smacks Sam’s hand out of the way, replacing it with his smaller one and twisting up in time with his bobbing. He gains confidence with every pull, working himself further and further down until Sam’s almost fully sheathed.
Sam doesn’t want to come too fast, but the image of Thomas going to town on his dick while wrapped entirely in Ferraro red is, frankly, overwhelming.
Sponsor logos litter the sleeves of his fireproof shirt, branding the arm that pumps back and forth, jerking Sam off into his mouth. His race suit hangs off his tiny waist, pooling around his knees like the skirt of a dress. Even the iconic red racing boots add to the allure, reminding Sam that he’s fucking into the mouth of Ferraro’s number one driver.
Only one thing could make this better.
“Look up, babe,” Sam pants. “I want to see your face.”
Thomas’s eyes fly open and trail up Sam’s body while he continues to bob his head. When they lock eyes again, Sam’s breath hitches.
He’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life.
“Fuck, I won’t last much longer.”
Sam’s not cruel enough to come all over Thomas’s suit before he has to face the press—though,fuck, what a great idea—but he won’t make the smaller driver swallow it either. There’s a trash can somewhere, Thomas just has to pull off of him first.
He doesn’t budge. Thomas picks up the pace while he scrambles against the opening of his own race suit. Once his handfinally snakes its way inside, he tugs at his own dick, over his Nomex underwear.
He’s getting off to it.
He’s going to come from sucking Sam off.
Sam can’t help himself from burying his fingers in Thomas’s hair, tensing around the sweaty strands. The extra sensation must work for Thomas—he whines around Sam’s cock as he jerks faster and spills over in his suit.
The inside of that iconic red race suit, now painted with his cum.
“Fuck.Fuck!” Sam follows quickly after, shooting his load down Thomas’s eager throat. He’s boneless when he stumbles over and collapses on the thin mattress of his massage table, heaving.
Thomas tilts his head back and swallows. His legs wobble as he pulls himself upright, onto the bench. “You forgive me?” His voice is hoarse and he rubs at his throat, massaging it.
“You can do whatever you want forever.” Sam slumps over sideways, against the wardrobe. Sleeping is a good idea.
“We have press,” Thomas croaks, shaking him. “The hotel room would have been a better idea.”
“Nothing could’ve been better. That was perfect.” Sam just needs to doze real quick.
“I think the podium is finished.”
There’s a ruckus outside their room as the guys from the LB1 garage flood back in.
Sam forgot they were on a timeline. “Just give me a moment, I’ll walk you out.” If they could avoid Adam, that would be great. “I should blindfold you, though. We’ve got too many secrets back here that Ferraro can’t see.”
