Barnaby released his cock and held out his palm. Lex squeezed lube across his fingers, enough that it pooled and dripped, and guided Barnaby’s hand between his own legs.
“Get yourself ready. I want to watch.”
Barnaby’s eyes opened. His grey gaze was glassy and dark, his pupils blown wide, and the look he gave Lex was pure outrage at being made to do this while Lex was still fully dressed and sitting at the end of the bed like a spectator at a sporting event. But he did it. He reached down, and his slick fingers found his hole, and Lex watched him press one inside, the tight ring of muscle stretching around his knuckle, his stomach clenching as he pushed past the resistance.
His breathing went ragged. He worked himself open with slow, deliberate strokes, his middle finger sinking deeper, his hips tilting up to meet his own hand. After a minute he added a second finger, and the sound he made, a low, punched-out grunt, barely voiced, hit Lex square in the gut.
Lex stroked the inside of Barnaby’s thigh. “That’s it. Take your time.”
Barnaby scissored his fingers, stretching himself wider, and the wet sounds of it were obscene in the quiet room. His cock lay hard against his stomach, untouched, the head flushed dark and leaking a steady thread of precome that pooled in the hollow of his navel.
When Barnaby withdrew his fingers, Lex pressed the tip of the dildo against him. Barnaby’s hand came down and covered Lex’s on the glass, and together they eased it in, the tapered head breaching the tight muscle, Barnaby’s body opening around the smooth, unyielding surface.
Barnaby’s back arched off the mattress. His hand flew up and gripped the headboard rail, his knuckles white, and the sound that came out of him was long and shaking and completely unguarded. Lex kept the pressure steady, feeding the dildo deeper in slow increments, watching inch after inch of blue-green glass disappear into Barnaby’s body.
He leaned in close. The angle let him see everything, the slick stretch of Barnaby’s rim around the shaft, the involuntary clenchand release of his muscles as the ridges caught and slid, the flush spreading from his chest up his neck to his jaw. Barnaby’s hole was pink and shining with lube, gripping the glass with each shallow thrust, and Lex could see the exact moment the widest swell hit, because Barnaby stopped breathing entirely.
“Breathe, Barns.”
Barnaby breathed. The dildo slid home, and his whole body went slack against the mattress, his chest heaving, his grip on the headboard loosening.
Lex passed the dildo to Barnaby’s hand. Their fingers tangled on the base, slippery with lube, and Barnaby took over, working the glass in and out in slow, grinding strokes that made his thighs tremble. His other hand found his cock again, and he stroked himself in time with the thrusts, his rhythm building, his hips lifting off the bed with each stroke.
Lex sat back. He watched.
It wasn’t even the look of Barnaby stretched around the glass, though that was filthy and gorgeous and Lex’s cock was straining against his jeans so hard he could feel his pulse in it. It was that Barnaby was letting him see this. That the man who’d seized up in Tokyo, who’d endured rather than participated, who’d saidI have self-controllike it was a shield he could hold between his body and his want, was lying on his back with his knees spread and a glass cock buried inside him, his face open and wrecked and not hiding any of it.
Barnaby’s eyes found his. Wet and bright and fierce, holding Lex’s gaze while his hand moved faster, while his mouth fell open, while his body arched and clenched around the glass.
Lex pressed his palm flat against the front of his jeans and exhaled hard through his nose. He was so hard it hurt. Not from the visual, but from the trust of it.
Barnaby’s rhythm stuttered. His hand slowed on his cock, his thighs trembling, and he eased the dildo out in carefulincrements, his body clenching around each ridge as it slid free. The glass emerged slick and glistening, and Barnaby set it on the duvet beside his hip.
He looked at Lex. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips bitten dark pink, and his chest rose and fell in uneven pulls. Still hard, still wet, his cock lay against his stomach, twitching against the fine trail of blond hair. His hole was flushed and open, the rim pink and shining, and Lex could see the small involuntary clench of the muscle as it adjusted to the emptiness.
“Lex.” Barnaby’s voice was wrecked. Low and rough, stripped of every layer of cut-glass composure. “I want you. Please.” His throat worked. “Wantyou.”
Lex’s breath caught. His hands stilled on the front of his jeans, and his whole body went taut with the effort of not moving too fast. He didn’t want to be that clumsy oaf who undid all of Barnaby’s progress with one careless word or action.
He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it. His jeans and boxers came off in one graceless shove, and he was hard enough that the air on his cock made him hiss through his teeth. He knelt between Barnaby’s legs, the mattress dipping under his weight, and ran his thumb along the slick, swollen rim of Barnaby’s arse.
Barnaby’s hips jerked. His breath punched out of him, and his hand flew to Lex’s wrist, not pulling away, just holding on.
“You sure?” Lex kept his thumb there, light, circling the softened muscle. “We don’t have to.”
“I’m sure.” Barnaby’s grip tightened on his wrist. His grey eyes were fierce and wet and unwavering. “I’ve been sure since you wrapped my hands in your locker room, Lex. My body just needed time to agree with the rest of me.”
Lex exhaled. He reached for the lube, slicked himself in long strokes, and the cold gel against his overheated skin made his jaw clench. He wiped the excess across Barnaby’s hole, pressingtwo fingers inside just to check. Barnaby opened for them, easy and warm, his body pulling Lex’s fingers deeper instead of locking them out.
That was new. That was everything he’d been wanting.
Lex leaned forward. He braced one hand beside Barnaby’s head, and with the other he guided himself to Barnaby’s entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against the slick, yielding muscle. He pushed, slow, watching Barnaby’s face, watching for the jaw-lock, the rigid panic, the white-knuckled grip on the sheets that had defined every attempt in Tokyo.
It didn’t come.
Barnaby’s mouth fell open. His eyes went wide, then half-shut, and the sound he made was a low, shaking exhale that carried his whole body with it. His hands came up to Lex’s shoulders, fingers digging into the hard swell of his deltoids, and his legs fell wider apart.
Lex sank into him. Inch by inch, the tight heat of Barnaby’s body gripping him, clenching and releasing in slow waves as it adjusted to the stretch. He was tight, but not rigid. Not braced against the sensation of being entered. The muscle gave around him in increments, and Barnaby’s hips tilted up to meet him, pulling him deeper.
