His breath catches when those fingers move to the button of his jeans, and the zipper sounds so loud in the enclosed space of the car. He obeys the demand, not because his eyes burn with that steel edge, but because he wants it. Because when Roman's undoing his pants, it's hard to resist almost anything that falls off his tongue. So he's scooting back on the seat, lifting his hips, letting the other teen drag his jeans and his boxers down his legs, leaving his cock springing free into the cool air.
The question it in his eyes, it's on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn't quite make it outloud. Somehow, victim of that fucked up connection that they share, no doubt, Roman seems to hear it anyway. Because he wants to -- it's an answer that is so fucking Roman that Peter can't do anything except smile. It doesn't last long, though. Not when Roman takes the gypsy's cock in his fingers, and then he bends, taking it into his bloodied mouth.
"Oh, shit, Roman--"
Peter curses, and he'd meant to keep his name off his lips. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend that this was easy, simple, meaningless. Pretend that Roman didn't get to him (but he did). His body arches and his hands go up over his head, clinging to the headrest for something to hold onto. His blue eyes focus on the lines of his body; his shoulders, his cheekbones, the ridges of his spine. There's a distant desire to trace every line with his tongue. Touch and feel and map him out, memorize him.
One small piece of Roman he can keep for himself. He'll never admit to the urge.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-11-13 07:20 am (UTC)The question it in his eyes, it's on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn't quite make it outloud. Somehow, victim of that fucked up connection that they share, no doubt, Roman seems to hear it anyway. Because he wants to -- it's an answer that is so fucking Roman that Peter can't do anything except smile. It doesn't last long, though. Not when Roman takes the gypsy's cock in his fingers, and then he bends, taking it into his bloodied mouth.
"Oh, shit, Roman--"
Peter curses, and he'd meant to keep his name off his lips. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend that this was easy, simple, meaningless. Pretend that Roman didn't get to him (but he did). His body arches and his hands go up over his head, clinging to the headrest for something to hold onto. His blue eyes focus on the lines of his body; his shoulders, his cheekbones, the ridges of his spine. There's a distant desire to trace every line with his tongue. Touch and feel and map him out, memorize him.
One small piece of Roman he can keep for himself. He'll never admit to the urge.