“I’m gotten,” Dorian says. The
grin spreads across Mahanon’s face as he turns to face him, reaching upwards,
his palm against his cheek. Closing his eyes as he leans forward, the first touch
of lips against lips. A heavy inhale, the deeper kiss, cupping Dorian’s face as
he lets his arms wrap around Mahanon’s waist. Splaying against his back,
traveling under his shirt, up his spine and they press against each other, into
each other. Swaying in place until Dorian is finally forced to step back, lean
against that desk, and Mahanon’s hands move from his face.
The sound of metal, working at
the straps and buckles, as Mahanon’s tongue slips inside his mouth. They’ve
kissed like this before, of course, but now there is some glorious purpose
waiting at the end of it all. Some chill of anticipation, the eagerness of want.
Opening up Dorian’s shirt, hands that move against his skin. Over chest and
belly, the curve of his hips. Dorian’s own fingers are slipping to Mahanon’s
waistband, cupping his ass, and Mahanon shifts against him. Dorian opens his
eyes only briefly as they shift.
Mahanon’s eyes are still closed.
Long, dark, lashes, black on bronze and there’s a flush in his cheeks. Wisps of
hair escape that messy bun of his, curl at his face, tucked behind long
red-tipped ears. A groan in his throat as Dorian feels his belt being undone,
unable to hear it under heavy breath and the wet desire of Mahanon’s mouth.
Their eyes open as Mahanon pulls back. Looking at each other, half-lidded, lips
red with attention. The flat of Mahanon’s hand presses against Dorian’s
stomach. “Yes?” he asks. Dorian wraps a hand around his wrist, guides him
lower.
Mayerine 