Lance lay there, boneless and docile, the world a soft, buzzing haze.
His mind, wiped clean of anything but sensation, circled one thought, one image, on a relentless loop: dick, dick, dick. Ansel's dick.
The thick, heavy weight of it against his tongue. The taste, fuck, the taste of him, salty and bitter and perfect, still coating the back of his throat.
His own cock lay soft and spent on his thigh, but a deeper, more insistent hunger had taken root.
He felt Ansel's gaze on him, a physical weight. Then, the slow, deliberate trace of fingertips along the sensitive dip of his waist, just above his hip bone.
The touch wasn't rough, but it was possessive, mapping the territory he'd just conquered. It sent a fresh shiver through Lance's oversensitive system.
Driven by a need he didn't understand, Lance moved.
