Dustin's cock was hard and slightly curved and… itwas pierced.
Two silver barbells sitting along the ridge of his cock, catching the light from the bedside lamp like they'd been designed specifically to short-circuit Greg's cognitive function.
“You—” Greg's voice sounded like it was coming from another room. “Did thathurt?”
“Like hell.”
“Why would youdothat to yourself.”
“Trust me, it was worth it.” Dustin's voice went low. “Want to touch?”
There was something challenging in Dustin's gaze. Something that invited Greg to challengehimself.
Greg swallowed hard and slid his hand from Dustin's hip.
Lower.
His fingers found warm metal and his brain short-circuited all over again because he wastouchingthem now, not just seeing them — two small smooth bars against hard, hot skin, and Dustin's breath hitched and Greg felt like lava ran through his own veins.
“Keep touching,” Dustin said, and then he was kissing Greg again and Greg… kept touching. His hand was shaking, but his fingers were mapping the shape of Dustin. Tracing. Examining the barbells.
Dustin made a low sound in his throat and shifted his hips into Greg's hand. “Yeah,” Dustin breathed against his jaw. “Like that.”
Greg tightened his grip and dragged his thumb across one barbell and Dustin groaned, open and unashamed, his hips rocking forward.
God.God.
Greg wanted to hear that sound again, wanted it more than anything, so he kept fumbling. He didn't know whatwas good, what was right. But he noticed what made Dustin's breath catch and what made his hips stutter and what made his fingers dig into Greg's hair hard enough to sting. So he did more of those things. And when he accidentally found a motion that made Dustin's whole body jerk against him, he repeated it.
“Fuck—” Dustin's forehead dropped to Greg's shoulder, his breath ragged and hot through the fabric of Greg's shirt. “Fuck, Greg?—”
Greg shuddered from scalp to spine. His own name in that voice — wrecked, desperate, the cocky drawl completely gone — did something to him that should not have been physically possible.
His hips were moving in helpless little stutters against Dustin's thigh because he couldn't keep still, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except keep his hand moving and listen to the sounds Dustin was making against his neck.
Then Dustin's hand found the hem of Greg's shirt and tugged.
“Off,” Dustin said. “This needs to be off.”
Greg let go of him long enough to yank the shirt over his head — or try to. It got stuck on his glasses and he had to wrestle with it, tangled in fabric, and Dustin laughed against his collarbone and helped with his good hand, pulling the shirt free and tossing it somewhere behind them.
Dustin took Greg's glasses too.
“I need those,” Greg protested.
“Do you really?”
“They make me relatable.”
“Seriously, you're the oddest person I've ever met,” Dustin said, but he said it in a fond toneof voice, and then his mouth was on Greg's chest, trailing down, and Greg's objection about the glasses dissolved into a sharp intake of breath.
Dustin's lips moved to his sternum and his hand lay flat on Greg's stomach and his fingers were toying with the waistband of Greg's pants.
“Can I?” Dustin's fingers hooked into the fabric. His breath was warm against Greg's ribs.
Greg nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
Dustin pulled Greg's pants down—underwear and all.
