I let my hand drift lower, skimming over the fabric of my pajama pants. Not underneath. Just…over. Tracing the outline of what’s becoming increasingly obvious beneath the plaid cotton.
Leo’s gaze drops to follow the movement. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Oh god.
I stroke myself through the fabric, lazy and slow, like I have all the time in the world. Like my heart isn’t hammering against my ribs.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“Perfectly.” But his voice has dropped half an octave and a flush is creeping up his neck.
I arch my back slightly, letting my shirt fall open wider. The cool air hits my chest, and I shiver.
Leo’s hands twitch against the sheets.
“You know,” I say conversationally, still palming myself through my pants, “most people would have left by now. Gone to sleep on the couch. Developed a sudden interest in late-night television.”
“I’m not most people,” Leo says.
“No.” I squeeze myself and let out a soft sound. “You’re really not.”
His chest is rising and falling faster now. I can see his pulse jumping in his throat.
I move my hand back up and hook my thumbs into my waistband. Pause. Let him anticipate.
“Last chance to retreat,” I offer.
“I don’t retreat,” Leo says in a low voice.
“Your funeral.”
I slide the pajama pants down my hips. Just an inch. Enough to expose the cut of muscle below my navel, the trail of hair leading downward, and the top of my cock.
Leo makes a sound like he’s been punched.
I stop there, leaving the pants exactly where they are, barely clinging to my hipbones.
“Problem?” I ask innocently.
“No.” The word comes out strangled.
I reach for the lube, making a production of it. Flicking open the cap and drizzling it over my fingers. Letting it catch the low light from the bedside lamp.
Leo’s eyes track every movement.
I bring my slick fingers to my chest first. The way Leo’s jaw goes tight when I circle my own nipple makes it absolutely worth it.
“Just warming up,” I explain.
“Archie.” His voice is gravel.
“Hmm?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t, maybe. His hands are fisted so tightly in the sheets that the tendons are standing out in his forearms.
I trail my wet fingers down my stomach. Over my ribs. Along the waistband of my pants, following that sensitive strip of skin.
Leo shifts beside me. When I glance over, I notice the sheet draped over him has an obvious bulge.
