Sex had definitely never been this good, and he wasn’t about to miss out on the end of it, just because Lane was worried he’d hate it.
“I wanna . . .” Lane exhaled hard. “On your face, baby.”
But that would be even better. Bless Lane for having the best ideas.
Trevor let his hot, wet length slip from his lips and he had only barely gotten his hand around it before Lane was tensing up everywhere and then began to come. Long warm streaks across his cheeks and forehead and even a corner of his mouth. He slipped his tongue out, tasting it, and the flavor of it and the fucking reality of it made his own hand tighten around himself, and a second later, he was shuddering too, orgasm crashing over him.
“Fuck, fuck, that’s . . .” Lane trailed off.
Trevor glanced down, at the pool of come underneath him. Then up at Lane, who was staring down at him like he was a priceless piece of artwork in one of those fancy museums.
“Yeah,” Trevor croaked.
Everything they’d done before now had been hot, sure, but that had blown the top of his head clean off.
Were experiments supposed to be that mind-blowing? Trevor didn’t want to admit to Lane that sex hadneverbeen like that for him before, that every time they crashed together, each time hotter than the last, the reality was lodging under his skin like a splinter he didn’t even want to pick out.
Lane leaned down over him, swiping at his dirty face with a paper towel. Trevor hadn’t even realized he’d gone to grab one. He was that out of it. That caught up in the questions spiraling through his brain.
What are we doing?
And can we just keep doing it?
After finishing, Lane tossed it down and Trevor tried not to blush as he cleaned up the floor, then tucked himself back into his sweatpants.
Lane extended a hand, lifting him to his feet effortlessly even though he wasn’t exactly small. But then Trevor knew just what all those rippling muscles Lane never seemed to put away were capable of.
“Well,” Lane said, staring at him like he didn’t know what to say.
That made two of them.
But clearly, it was not going to beLane, so Trevor was going to have to make do with whatever insanity spouted out of him.
“I didn’t think it could be that good,” was apparently the flavor that Trevor’s brain was picking to go with. That made a lot of sense. Half of his wonder was that it wasLane. The other half was that it waslike this.
Lane, leaning against the counter, body loose in a way that Trevor was beginning to associate with sex, froze. “Uh,” he said.
“I know you do this a lot, so I guess it must be really good like that all the time.” Trevor was babbling now and couldn’t make himself stop. “It’s not—I don’t usually—it’s just not like that for me.”
“You have bad sex?” Lane asked, because of fucking course that was what he’d focused on.
“No, it just isn’t likethat.” Trevor wasn’t going to say there was an enormous distance betweenbadand then whatever that had been.
Lane swallowed. Looked away. To the chicken on the counter like he’d switched from thinking about what Trevor had said to what he was going to make for dinner. But Trevor was beginning to figure out some of his tells. And no question, this was one.
“It’s not normally that good,” Lane finally said.
No elaboration, but then Trevor had a feeling admitting even that had cost him, so it wasn’t like he could demand more. Even if he wanted more.
“Okay.” At the very least, that was good to know. It wasn’t just Trevor, then. Whatever insanity was happening, they were at least in this together.
It didn’t always feel that way, but then Lane had been clear about it. If Trevor wanted it, he could take it. Heshouldtake it.
Trevor had wondered, in the back of his mind the whole time, if that meant Lane was indifferent to whether it happened or not, but the one thing that was coming into clearer and clearer focus for Trevor was that Lane was the last thing from indifferent.
Lane cleared his throat. “You still want dinner?”
“Well, yeah,” Trevor said. Told himself he could make the joke—that heshouldmake the joke. “I can’t survive on dick alone.”
