[ they're balancing on a tightrope, a delicate sway back and forth as they all but circle one another. hawk nuzzles in just a fraction of an inch closer and tim laughlin finds himself utterly overwhelmed. it's not the first time he's slipped away from some obligation or event to indulge in baser, messier wants, but it's the first time he feels like an utterly caged animal, the way hawk's body angles in, the way he can smell his cologne and the scotch on his breath from moments before.
(what does it taste like on his tongue? it's an obscene though, but it makes tim's eyes flutter down to the curve of hawk's lips as he speaks). ]
I've got a good knack for enduring, you're right, Mr. Fuller.
[ the glass of milk hits the table with a satisfying little plunk and by the time tim's eyes raise to meet the heated, wanting blue of hawk's? he's being hauled up onto the table with broad palms he wishes had stayed against the bare skin of his wrist a moment longer, so that the heat and tingle of it could bite and sting and burn, like a brand.
but hawk's mouth is hotter than that, and a low hum of surprise leaves his own throat as his ass comes to settle on the table, as his thighs open willingly to accept the breadth of the man between them. tim arches his back, bringing him into the kiss and his hands instinctively shift, the one at hawk's elbow rising to grip his shoulder and slide into the crook at his neck, the other against hawk's chest, fingers pressing hard against the fabric of his expensive tie where it sits just off his collarbone.
he parts his lips, and with a hungry sort of eagerness licks hungry and needy into hawk's mouth, searching out the taste of scotch he'd wondered about before. it's foolish how he's already starting to feel his cock stir, how the strong hands at his thighs and the heft up onto the desk have sent his blood to the hot south. tim's thighs flex, muscles rippling under his palms as he bumps his knees in against hawk's hips. inviting, maybe, but more like dragging him in. ]
It's good you locked the door.
[ it's a weak, bad joke when he parts for air before diving in to kiss him again, the hand at his neck sliding to his nape and into his hair. ]
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(what does it taste like on his tongue? it's an obscene though, but it makes tim's eyes flutter down to the curve of hawk's lips as he speaks). ]
I've got a good knack for enduring, you're right, Mr. Fuller.
[ the glass of milk hits the table with a satisfying little plunk and by the time tim's eyes raise to meet the heated, wanting blue of hawk's? he's being hauled up onto the table with broad palms he wishes had stayed against the bare skin of his wrist a moment longer, so that the heat and tingle of it could bite and sting and burn, like a brand.
but hawk's mouth is hotter than that, and a low hum of surprise leaves his own throat as his ass comes to settle on the table, as his thighs open willingly to accept the breadth of the man between them. tim arches his back, bringing him into the kiss and his hands instinctively shift, the one at hawk's elbow rising to grip his shoulder and slide into the crook at his neck, the other against hawk's chest, fingers pressing hard against the fabric of his expensive tie where it sits just off his collarbone.
he parts his lips, and with a hungry sort of eagerness licks hungry and needy into hawk's mouth, searching out the taste of scotch he'd wondered about before. it's foolish how he's already starting to feel his cock stir, how the strong hands at his thighs and the heft up onto the desk have sent his blood to the hot south. tim's thighs flex, muscles rippling under his palms as he bumps his knees in against hawk's hips. inviting, maybe, but more like dragging him in. ]
It's good you locked the door.
[ it's a weak, bad joke when he parts for air before diving in to kiss him again, the hand at his neck sliding to his nape and into his hair. ]