Lex’s gaze tracked from Barnaby’s collarbones to his cock, flushed, curving up towards his navel. His hands twitched on the mattress. “Can I touch you now?” he asked, his voice rough.
Barnaby climbed onto the bed. He straddled Lex’s thighs, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Lex’s hips, and settled his weight onto Lex’s lap. Lex’s hands came up immediately, one gripping his hip, the other flat against the small of his back, pulling him in. Their chests met, skin against skin, and Barnaby felt the heat of Lex’s body all along his front.
“Now you can touch me.”
He kissed him. Slow, deep, his hands cupping Lex’s jaw, tilting his head back. Lex’s mouth opened under his, and the taste of wine and coffee was warm on his tongue. Barnaby pressed deeper, licking into his mouth, and Lex groaned against his lips. The sound vibrated through Barnaby’s chest.
He rolled his hips. Their cocks were pressed together between their stomachs, Lex’s still trapped in cotton, and the friction was maddening; there was too much fabric, and not enough pressure. Barnaby reached between them and tugged the waistband of Lex’s briefs down. Lex lifted his hips, and Barnaby worked them past his cock, past his thighs, as far as he could reach before Lex kicked them off the rest of the way.
Barnaby settled back onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Lex’s neck, pulling their bodies flush. Their cocks slid together, the shock of it, hot skin against hot skin, the drag of Lex’s foreskin against the underside of his shaft, and Barnaby’s breath stuttered.
“There,” he said. He pressed his forehead against Lex’s. “Just like this.”
Lex’s arms wrapped around him. Both hands flat against Barnaby’s back, his fingers spread wide, holding him close. Barnaby rolled his hips again, and the friction built. Their cocks were caught between their stomachs, slick with precome, the heads nudging together on each stroke. Lex’s abdominal muscles clenched against Barnaby’s cock, and the ridged pressure of them made Barnaby gasp.
He found a rhythm. Slow, grinding rolls, his hips doing the work while Lex held him steady. Barnaby kissed him through it, long, wet, open-mouthed kisses that broke apart when the friction spiked and came back together when it eased. Lex’s hands moved on his back, up his spine and down again, his movements slow and soothing.
“You looked incredible tonight,” Lex murmured against his mouth. “Watching you across the table…I wanted to climb over the candles and get to you.”
Barnaby ground down harder. Their cocks were slippery now, precome smeared across both their stomachs, and each stroke dragged the wet length of Lex’s shaft along his own. The friction was raw and slick and perfect, and Barnaby could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the thick flare of his head catching against Barnaby’s shaft on each upstroke.
“Fuck, Barns.” Lex’s voice was rough. His hands dropped to Barnaby’s arse and gripped, pulling him forward on each stroke, setting a pace that was harder, faster, the slap of their hips meeting becoming audible in the quiet room. “You feel so good. Your hands…tighter.”
Barnaby tightened his grip. He could feel Lex’s pulse through his cock, the thick throb of it against his palm. His own cock was leaking steadily, the slick running down his fingers and easing the slide. Every stroke of his hand built the pressure in his gut, a coiling heat that spread through his thighs and up into his chest.
Lex’s kiss was deep and consuming, his tongue sliding against Barnaby’s. His hands on Barnaby’s arse pulled him into a rhythm that was no longer controlled or careful. Barnaby was riding his lap, grinding against him, his thighs burning, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls through his nose. Their cocks slid together in his fist, slick and hot, and the wet sounds of it were obscene in the quiet of the room.
“I’m close,” Barnaby said. He pressed the words into Lex’s mouth, barely more than breath. “I’m close, Lex.”
Lex’s arms tightened around him. He pulled Barnaby flush against his chest, trapping their cocks between their stomachs, and thrust up — short, hard rolls of his hips that dragged his shaft along Barnaby’s. One of his hands slid up Barnaby’s spine and cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.
“Come on, then,” Lex said. “Come on, Bash.”
Barnaby came with his face buried in Lex’s neck. His whole body clenched, and he spilled between them in hot, pulsing streaks that slicked Lex’s stomach and ran down his own fingers. Lex held him through it, both arms locked around his ribs, his mouth pressed to Barnaby’s temple.
Lex came seconds later. Barnaby felt it, the thick pulse of his cock against his own softening shaft, the sudden warmth spreading between their stomachs. Then Lex’s arms went slack and his head dropped back, his chest heaving.
They stayed like that. Barnaby’s arms around Lex’s neck, Lex’s arms around Barnaby’s waist, their bodies sealed together with come and sweat. Barnaby’s thighs were trembling. He could feel Lex’s heartbeat through his chest, fast and uneven, gradually slowing.
Lex’s hand came up and stroked his hair in slow, idle passes. His blunt fingers combed through the damp strands at Barnaby’s nape. Barnaby closed his eyes and let himself be held.
After a long time, Lex shifted. He pulled back just far enough to look at Barnaby’s face, his dark eyes soft, his grin lopsided and fond.
“This has been a perfectly lovely weekend,” Lex said, in a cut-glass accent so appalling that it constituted an act of treason against the English language.
Barnaby bit down on the side of his neck. Not hard enough to mark, but enough to make Lex yelp and laugh, his whole body shaking against Barnaby’s, and so Barnaby laughed too. The sound was muffled against Lex’s skin, his teeth still pressed to the warm pulse beneath his jaw.
Chapter Twenty-One
Barnaby’shands were a problem. Kneeling on the rubber matting of the locker room at Malik’s Gym in Barking, with Barnaby’s left hand resting palm-down across his own, this became immediately apparent, particularly when he took in its stark contrast to his own.
His fingers were long and narrow, the knuckles fine-boned, the tendons visible beneath skin that had never been anywhere near a heavy bag. They were the hands of a man who held reins and champagne flutes and, on several memorable recent occasions, Lex’s cock, when the slender elegance of them had made his length look positively obscene.
Lex unrolled the first strip of hand wrap and pressed the loop over Barnaby’s thumb.
“Make a fist for me.”
Barnaby made a fist. It was a terrible fist. His thumb tucked inside his fingers, which was the fastest way to break it, and his wrist cocked at an angle that would have folded on first contact with anything harder than a sofa cushion.
