[ Between them, Fraser was getting the strip down treatment, serge and suspenders tugged down over muscular shoulders. That was good; really good. He'd watched Fraser's business like strip show in his rearview mirror enough times to be able to appreciate the reverence even in Stanley's rough stripping, because how often had he dreamed about doing that himself? Ripping off Fraser's clothes and leaving them rumpled and abandoned on the floor as the sex got rougher?
Ray's hands came up to assist in the process, skimmed across Fraser's hips, before hooking the bottom of his shirt and - with a little of the other man's cooperation - tugging it smoothly up over his head. That left him the entire expanse of Fraser's back to run his hands over while--
Oh. Oh that was pretty.
Out of his shirt, Stanley Kowalski was a picture. There were bruises around his throat and down his chest, his arms, his wrists; black and purple and red. All the places where Ray had bitten and clawed and kneed and squeezed; across the top of his ribs and his forearms where he'd held on from behind as he tore into him. This was what he'd wanted. He'd been able to tell the story with his own bruises, but there was something so very rewarding about being able to refresh his memory via Stanley's bruises too.
Oh yes, they were beautiful. His open hand strayed to Stanley's chest, thumb brushing one bruised nipple, and then he was pulling his hand back abruptly, stripping out of his own crisp silk jacket and pressed shirt with rough efficiency, as though the heat of it were suddenly suffocating him. ]
Nothing to lose by trying. [ He quirked his eyebrows at Stanley as his mouth brushed the back of Fraser's bare neck, a column of unbelievable strength that none the less bowed under his touch. ] I didn't do so badly out of it last time. [ His hands settled again, this time on Fraser's chest, and he was pulling him back, hands splaying across a glorious expanse of pectorals, tilting his weight away from Stanley in order to give the other man a little freedom--or maybe just to torture him with the show. ]
Hey Benny. [ It was a stage whisper murmured into his ear. ] Ray doesn't look so good. How about we kiss him better?
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Ray's hands came up to assist in the process, skimmed across Fraser's hips, before hooking the bottom of his shirt and - with a little of the other man's cooperation - tugging it smoothly up over his head. That left him the entire expanse of Fraser's back to run his hands over while--
Oh. Oh that was pretty.
Out of his shirt, Stanley Kowalski was a picture. There were bruises around his throat and down his chest, his arms, his wrists; black and purple and red. All the places where Ray had bitten and clawed and kneed and squeezed; across the top of his ribs and his forearms where he'd held on from behind as he tore into him. This was what he'd wanted. He'd been able to tell the story with his own bruises, but there was something so very rewarding about being able to refresh his memory via Stanley's bruises too.
Oh yes, they were beautiful. His open hand strayed to Stanley's chest, thumb brushing one bruised nipple, and then he was pulling his hand back abruptly, stripping out of his own crisp silk jacket and pressed shirt with rough efficiency, as though the heat of it were suddenly suffocating him. ]
Nothing to lose by trying. [ He quirked his eyebrows at Stanley as his mouth brushed the back of Fraser's bare neck, a column of unbelievable strength that none the less bowed under his touch. ] I didn't do so badly out of it last time. [ His hands settled again, this time on Fraser's chest, and he was pulling him back, hands splaying across a glorious expanse of pectorals, tilting his weight away from Stanley in order to give the other man a little freedom--or maybe just to torture him with the show. ]
Hey Benny. [ It was a stage whisper murmured into his ear. ] Ray doesn't look so good. How about we kiss him better?