[ It's probably for the best that Francesca has already come and gone, because the heat in the corridor had risen beyond any normal range, entirely off the human scale. Ray felt wonderful beneath him, between him and the wall, felt impossibly hot and hard. There was nothing feminine about him, and it was clear that Fraser wasn't making the mistake of thinking so himself--he might have been more gentle.
He's not gentle; he kisses like a man, kisses like Ray's partner, like snowy crags and sheer ice and iron mountain ranges, like desperation and survival as though the kiss is his last. Maybe it's fear. He has to pour it all out of himself in case he never gets the chance to have Ray feel it again, as though this alcohol-inspired kiss will be the only one, and once Ray's sober he'll realise his mistake. He'd afraid that if he stops Ray will have time to think, and he'll think 'No'.
(But Ray had leant in. Ray was groaning, groping him, fighting against his tongue with his own, and how could he possibly mix all those signals up and still come out paralyzed with fear?)
He was hip to hip with him; hip to hip, anchored against Ray by his partner's own will, and as his fingers squeezed, kneaded into denim and lean muscle Fraser could only softly whimper - moan - against the mouth beneath his own. That was what it took to break the kiss, it turned out, and Fraser pushed his forehead against Ray's, noses edge to edge, their mouths parted by inches so that they could both catch their breath.
Fraser could have spoken then--pulled back, excused himself, put a stop to this before it went any further. He should. Any other time he might have. This time he only waited for as long as it took Ray to recover from his assault before he kissed him again, open mouthed, wet breathy kisses that darted in and out. Kiss, kiss, the flash of tongue, another moan as he unconsciously ground his hips in against Ray's. He could barely move them, but he tried, gained a rutting half inch upward. That was not a wood carving in his pocket.
But God, Ray. He squeezed the fingers his own were wound around, then let them go, reaching down to slide his hands under his rumpled tuxedo jacket, smoothing his palms against the crisp white shirt underneath, already well soaked in heat from Ray's body, sweat from their short run behind the church and their current exertions. He could feel the body underneath, feel each inhalation as it filled his ribcage, the retaliation of force and strength, the steel tension across his abdominal muscles. He had the sudden desire to run his tongue against them.
His kiss was slowing now, less fractured, resuming the slow loveliness of before with some of the passion of the in-between; balanced somewhere in between where breathing was still an option, as though he'd simply been experimenting to try to establish what worked best. His tongue lathed apologetically against Stanley's, inviting him back inside, his eyes at last closing as confidence filled him that this wasn't about to stop, that it really was okay. Ray wasn't going anywhere. ]
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He's not gentle; he kisses like a man, kisses like Ray's partner, like snowy crags and sheer ice and iron mountain ranges, like desperation and survival as though the kiss is his last. Maybe it's fear. He has to pour it all out of himself in case he never gets the chance to have Ray feel it again, as though this alcohol-inspired kiss will be the only one, and once Ray's sober he'll realise his mistake. He'd afraid that if he stops Ray will have time to think, and he'll think 'No'.
(But Ray had leant in. Ray was groaning, groping him, fighting against his tongue with his own, and how could he possibly mix all those signals up and still come out paralyzed with fear?)
He was hip to hip with him; hip to hip, anchored against Ray by his partner's own will, and as his fingers squeezed, kneaded into denim and lean muscle Fraser could only softly whimper - moan - against the mouth beneath his own. That was what it took to break the kiss, it turned out, and Fraser pushed his forehead against Ray's, noses edge to edge, their mouths parted by inches so that they could both catch their breath.
Fraser could have spoken then--pulled back, excused himself, put a stop to this before it went any further. He should. Any other time he might have. This time he only waited for as long as it took Ray to recover from his assault before he kissed him again, open mouthed, wet breathy kisses that darted in and out. Kiss, kiss, the flash of tongue, another moan as he unconsciously ground his hips in against Ray's. He could barely move them, but he tried, gained a rutting half inch upward. That was not a wood carving in his pocket.
But God, Ray. He squeezed the fingers his own were wound around, then let them go, reaching down to slide his hands under his rumpled tuxedo jacket, smoothing his palms against the crisp white shirt underneath, already well soaked in heat from Ray's body, sweat from their short run behind the church and their current exertions. He could feel the body underneath, feel each inhalation as it filled his ribcage, the retaliation of force and strength, the steel tension across his abdominal muscles. He had the sudden desire to run his tongue against them.
His kiss was slowing now, less fractured, resuming the slow loveliness of before with some of the passion of the in-between; balanced somewhere in between where breathing was still an option, as though he'd simply been experimenting to try to establish what worked best. His tongue lathed apologetically against Stanley's, inviting him back inside, his eyes at last closing as confidence filled him that this wasn't about to stop, that it really was okay. Ray wasn't going anywhere. ]