[He's imagined it, since Cy performed the act for him—branded now into his memory with real and visceral permanency. And every time the thought has come into his head since, it was always Cy whose knees he sank between. Always Cy who steadied him with hands in his hair, dark and filthy words in his ear. What does he taste like? What would it feel like? The hunger is like fire in his belly, warming straight through to an ache of arousal.
Swallowing, throat working around the shortcake—and though he tastes it, a muted kind of sweetness with the matcha—he's more interested in the flavor salt on Cy's thumb against his lower lip.]
no subject
Swallowing, throat working around the shortcake—and though he tastes it, a muted kind of sweetness with the matcha—he's more interested in the flavor salt on Cy's thumb against his lower lip.]
Yes. Can we try?