Twelve Days of Heat: Day Two

Twelve Days of Heat: Day Two

The second day of competition, December the thirteenth, dawns much the same as the first: Reese is pulled out of his pleasant dream by the shrieking alarm far too early. He groans and buries his face deeper in the pillows, wondering if he’s pissed God off and managed to get stuck in some sort of limbo, where he has to live the same day over and over again.

He peers at his phone, blearily registers that no, it is indeed Thursday, and that means he isn’t stuck in some sort of time warp, but that he just had the exact same dream about his captain as he did the night before, got cut off at the exact same point, woke up the exact same kind of horny he was yesterday, despite having sodomized himself last night.

Seriously, he thought that would help. It clearly didn’t, but that pisses him off a bit. He has competition. He has races to think about. He has heats for the medley and potentially three finals tonight if he does well enough. Two for sure.

The last thing he needs is to be distracted by his dick.

He rolls over, grits his teeth as the nubby hairs on his legs bite into him. Right. He still needs to shave. Fuck.

He hauls himself out of bed, to the shower. He sets the spray to as frigid as he can stand, hopes that the prolonged coolness against his skin will deter his libido and not give him a case of hypothermia. Shivering, he shaves his legs, ridding himself off the hairs threatening to push through again. He swipes the razor under his arms, over his chest, up from his crotch.

Anything for a fraction of a second advantage in the water. He should’ve made a spa appointment before they left the States, got waxed.

No matter. When he’s satisfied that he’s tracked down every stray hair, he turns the water off and hops out of the shower. He towels off, dresses, frowns at himself, because even the prolonged shower hasn’t taken the edge off.

They have a later start this morning; Gord’s not going to make them do anything except race. Mel and Kat have heats starting right at 10, and the boys are up in the medley right after. Reese is lucky that once he’s done with the medley, he has nothing more to qualify for today; he gets a bit of reprieve. The rest of the guys have the 200M freestyle relay. They’ll have a better idea of what their evening looks like once the morning heats are done, but Reese fully expects that at least some of the team will be there from seven until eleven or maybe even closer to midnight. There’s a lot of events to jam into a few days, as evidenced by the fact Reese could run three races tonight.

It sounds exhausting. He hates the ache in his limbs; they have another three days of competition after this. Friday will be lighter for him—heats for one event in the morning, maybe the final in the evening. Saturday is also light, but Sunday—Sunday is fucked. It’s the last day of competition, and Reese knows he has three qualifiers in the morning and four potential finals in the evening.

He is going to hurt; he rues the fact he’s already feeling a little achy, a little tired. Maybe Gord didn’t let him taper enough. Fuck.

He drags his hands down face, grabs coffee from the continental breakfast. At least Gord isn’t a total slave-driver; he knows how much hard work they have to do over the next few days. He knows there’s no point in putting them in the pool for additional laps. They won’t get anything out of it.

He pivots, faces the room—mostly empty, a few people here or there, likely swimmers like himself.

He spots Mel across the way, heads over to her. He plonks down in a chair across from her, sipping his coffee.

“Morning,” she yawns.

“Morning,” he replies, drinks more of the steaming black liquid, letting it roll across his tongue. Normally, he’d drown it in cream and sugar, but his stomach’s off and he doesn’t want to risk it. He needs the caffeine though.

Mel frowns at his mug, then says, “You feeling okay?” One slender eyebrow is arched.

“Fine,” he replies, then fills his mouth with bitter coffee again, swallowing down anything else that might inadvertently slip out. His brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t always work very well, especially not first thing in the morning, and he’s not sure telling his (female) teammate that he’s incredibly turned on for no apparent reason and having sex dreams about their captain is really something he wants to divulge at the moment.

She bites her lip, lowers her gaze. But she keeps looking back at him, curiosity in her eyes, until she finally says, “You seem flushed.”

“Hmm,” he says, mostly into his coffee.

“You’re not running a fever or anything, are you?”

He shakes his head, then sets the mug down. He wanders over to the buffet, partially because he thinks he should probably eat something (coffee on an empty stomach burns) and partially because he doesn’t want to talk to Mel about this anymore.

He’s saved from needing to think about it any further when Brody arrives. Conversation turns to other topics, and Reese forgets the edginess of his body, thinks instead about the pool and what needs to be accomplished between sunrise and sunset.

It’s significantly easier to think of that once he’s actually in the natatorium, inhaling chlorine. It’s so much easier to get into the right headspace when he catches glimpses of the water, when he hears the tell-tale sounds of lockers slamming. His vision narrows, his world collapses to the natatorium. Nothing exists outside of it.

The shrinking ring of existence continues to narrow, closing in on him as he moves through the locker room, then to the warm-up pool. The girls are up first; then it will be heats for the medley.

He wishes he could just will Gabriel out of existence, wishes he could convince himself to narrow his focus so much that he’s not even aware of Gabriel standing right beside him, splashing water over his arms as he swings back and forth, warming up. Reese wishes he had a set of blinders on, like a horse, to prevent his eyes from traveling sideways, vainly trying to get a better glimpse of Gabriel’s dripping, hard body.


He has no idea how he’s so distracted. Like, yes, they kissed a couple of times, yes, they’ve shared a bed more than once, and yes, Gabriel’s mother and sisters are somehow under the impression that he and Reese are an item.

And, if Reese wants to be perfectly, brutally honest with himself, he has to admit that he wouldn’t object to sharing a bed with Gabriel in a more intimate way, to an extended version of their kiss that ends with him on his back and Gabriel over top of him and—

Whoa. He blinks, splashes water over himself to wash away his stupor, his filthy fantasies. This is not the time or place for them; he’s wearing nothing but a thin layer of too-tight spandex and his junk is pretty much already on display. He does not need to pitch a tent in the warm-up pool. Or the race. Or any time else during this damn competition.

He glances sideways at Gabriel again, then screws his eyes shut and dunks himself, because fuck it. If he’s trying not to notice Gabriel, why did he look? Why did he think it was a good idea to see just how much Gabriel was on display too?

Gabriel’s staring at him when he comes back up, and he gasps for air, coughs and splutters because he probably drank down some chlorinated water when he went under. He glares up at his captain, but the younger man says nothing.

They’re in separate heats to start. That’s to Reese’s advantage; much like the butterfly yesterday, he squeaks through to semis on account of being in one of the faster guys in a slow group.

It’s worse today though; he sits on the edge of the bubble for three or four heats, nervously waiting to be told if he’ll move through to the semifinals. He doesn’t dare think about the final. The 400M is not his length—Gord told him to enter another competition, so he picked that one. While he’s not really a sprinter, he’s also not a distance guy. He does best around 100 to 200M.

He makes it through to the semifinal, so he has to get his game face back on. It’s pretty difficult to do when Gabriel’s actually in the lane right next to him (how it happened, Reese will never know—Gabriel should be one of the center lanes, and Reese is decidedly … not), and his eye keeps wandering, creeping toward his captain.

He’s certain he’s going insane.

That’s especially true when he can’t find his focus even as they’re on the blocks, waiting for the gun to go—he wants to keep looking at Gabriel, his vision sidetracking, and he needs to glue his gaze to the water below him, tense his arms, pull himself taut, ready, ready, ready—

He bites his lip, shoves down the thoughts about how it’s like desire when it yawns through him, from the tips of his toes to his crown, stretching to either end, the tension so thick that it simply must snap—

The gun goes, and they plunge into the water. Arms and legs, remember to breathe, but he turns his head and glances at Gabriel, watches him pulling away.

Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate—

He fumbles mid-stroke, grits his teeth and pushes harder, desperate to move forward, force his gaze to the bottom of the pool, and not—not

Gabriel. God. They’re underwater and he’s got his eyes pinned to his captain’s every move, even as he’s leaving him in the dust. (Is there dust in water? Hmm …)

He stretches out, lets his fingers brush the wall; Gabriel’s already flipped over and shot back by him, propelling himself through the water in backstroke.

Reese is so behind. He flips over and screws his eyes shut, willing his arms to go even faster, to make some semblance of an effort—right now, he looks like a fool in the water, a guy who’s in over his head.

Gabriel’s still leading when they get to breaststroke; it slows him down a bit, but he’s already got such a lead on the rest of the field that it scarcely matters. Reese wishes, for a moment, that he was better at the stroke, but he’s not—so he gains nothing from Gabriel’s slower pace.

He makes up a couple of places through fly, but not enough to pull him through to the final likely. He’ll definitely get bumped off the bubble when the next heat registers their times.

Gabriel drags him aside in the locker room, pins him up against the wall, and Reese focuses on controlling his breath, like he’s underwater, like he’s racing—one wrong inhalation, one wrong exhalation, and that’ll be the end of him …

“Are you okay?” the dark-eyed man asks, his gaze locked on Reese.

“Mm,” Reese replies, nodding slightly. He needs to get out of here. Gabriel’s hands are wet against his shoulders, sliding down his bare skin, even as he holds him there, and Reese looks away, gnaws at his lip.

It takes everything he has not to simply groan, tilt his head back, sigh, “Fuck me, Gabby,” vows, promises, beliefs be damned.

“You sure?” Gabriel asks, leaning in closer; his breath ghosts across Reese’s cheek. Reese screws his eyes shut, but he’s sure he’s betrayed—his muscles are jumping, maybe with anticipation, and he manages a high-pitched, “Mmhmm” through his nose.

Pressure. He feels it often enough to know it; they dive deep sometimes, the weight of the water pressing down on them, even as they move so effortlessly through it. Now it’s between his thighs, though, and he doesn’t know what to do with it there, resists the urge to cross his legs, to tense up and contract, even though there’s some subtle, instinctual voice telling him to do just that, how nice it will feel …

“You seem off.”

He wants to get off, he thinks, then rolls his eyes open to meet Gabriel’s. “I’m fine,” he says and he’s not sure how he manages not to gasp or pant it, but he doesn’t. It sounds halfway to normal.

Gabriel doesn’t seem to trust him at all, his gaze wary, skeptical. Reese nods, the hint of a smile lifting to his lips. The younger man glances about, then whispers, “You should go back to the hotel. You’re warm—don’t need you catching anything.”

“Yeah,” Reese agrees.

He catches the shuttle back to the hotel ahead of the team. It’s not like it matters; he has plenty of time before evening races start.

Still, tired as he is, worn as he is, he’s not sure he can sleep. He’s still edgy, strung. His eyes are falling shut as he picks his way through lunch, there’s an ache in his limbs, but he still …

Wants. Every time he closes his eyes, he zeroes in on that desire, his world narrowing much like it does in the pool.

He makes it back upstairs, intends to nap. He needs it, he thinks. Gabriel’s right; he’s running a bit of a fever, although it could just be the intensity of competition.

He collapses into the mattress, lets his limbs sprawl out. He stares up at the ceiling, then bites his lip as he inhales.

He should save his energy, but he grinds one out instead, comes across the sheets with a shout. The maids are probably going to hate him—they’ve already been up and changed the sheets for today, so no doubt they saw last night’s mess. He’s not even sure if he left a mess in the shower yesterday morning.

He shudders, wonders why his body’s decided now of all times is the best time to be brutally, unrelentingly needy.

He tries sleeping, but he ends up tossing and turning. He feels worse than before he tried to take a nap when he heads down for dinner.

Everyone else looks tired too, so he at least fits in. They hardly talk during the meal, all of them more concerned with finals, with getting fuel into their bodies to make it through tonight’s session—and then through three more days of this.

Reese heads back with them for the 400M medley despite the fact he didn’t make the roster. He’s not going to get any more sleep, he knows; he might as well watch Gabriel podium.

And podium he does, winning silver in this first race. Reese watches from the stands, pretending he’s nonchalant, like he’s not cheering his teammates on. Of course he wants them to do well, but he also didn’t make the cut for this race, so he doesn’t want to look too exuberant.

He’s never been good with understated, so he’s on his feet, cheering and whopping with Mel and Kat, hugs Kat close when Gabriel finishes second. Corey gets fourth, which isn’t as good, but it’s something. Better than Reese did, at least.

He has no time to dwell on it; he has to get ready to run his own race. He scuttles off to the locker room to make ready.

He meets his teammates in the warm-up area. Gabriel is already getting ready for the next race; he’s lounging in ice, looks somehow very comfortable there, and Reese thinks it’s very appropriate—Ice King Gabriel, surveying his domain.

Reese does laps in the pool, slow and melodic, paying attention to the way his left shoulder pulls at the apex of his stroke, not the way his stomach’s fluttering, knowing that Gabriel’s over there, watching him.

Or maybe not watching him. He refuses to look and verify.

He meets the girls on his way out; they wish him luck, then hop into the pool, getting ready for their semifinals. They’re up next.

He finishes fourth. Fourth. Fucking fourth. He stares at the times on the leaderboard for a while. His shoulder aches, and he’ll have to do damage control on that when they get back to the hotel.

It’s fine, he tells himself. 100M isn’t is strong suit.

He can’t dwell on that either, because he has another race to run.

It’s forever until he runs it, though, so he sits in the ice bath as long as he dares, tries to dull the ache of his shoulder.

He’ll do better, he tells himself. He still has plenty of events.

But the 100M butterfly isn’t his strong suit either, and he’s racing both Gabriel and Caleb, and he finishes off the podium there too—another fourth. Caleb comes second. Gabriel is, of course, first, and he kind of smirks a bit at Reese.

He’s done for the night, but the relay is the last event of the night, so sore and tired and angry as he is, he hangs around. Again, he finds himself in the stands with Kat and Mel, all of them cheering as their boys sweep to another gold.

Reese swallows jealousy, tries to drown it in his cheering and whopping.

It’s harder to do when Gabriel’s standing on the podium, beaming, and he turns just so—catches Reese’s eye, and there’s that stupid smirk again.

The fucking prick. Reese shouldn’t be so pissed, but Gabriel’s got three medals and he didn’t place in either of his own races. And Gabriel knows that, looks at him like he’s dirt.

As though the guy who went to the Olympics and won a bunch of medals has to prove he’s better than him. As though he has to lord it over him.

They don’t talk on the bus, but Reese keeps glancing at him, hates his knowing look, his stupid smirk.

They sit politely at the table in the restaurant—a post-session fueling that they all need. They all had dinner before, but they’ve used up almost everything they had in their tanks. The entire team makes an effort not to seem too voracious, but they do need food, so Reese tries to distract himself with it. But there’s this sort of hunger in the way Gabriel looks at him, and he’s feeling it, God, does he feel it—pressure between his legs.

He catches Gabriel’s gaze a couple more times, but neither of them say anything.

Gabriel excuses himself first, on account of the fact that he ran three races today, that he won gold, that he’s exhausted. Reese figures he’s so hopped up on adrenaline—the excitement of racing, the thrill of the win—he’s not going to sleep anytime soon.

Gabriel telegraphs as much through his body language, and he catches Reese’s eye one last time before he slips off to the suite anyway. Reese doesn’t follow. They’re not stupid. Or, well, they like to think they’re not that idiotic. So Reese knows better than to follow him right off the bat.

Instead, he sits at the table a while longer, forcing a grin to his face, engaging in small talk with Mel and Kat, talking shop with Corey and Brody; Caleb’s already turned in for the night. Reese doesn’t have to go to morning session tomorrow, and he only has the 200M medley final tomorrow evening. He can rest a bit, recuperate, lick the wounds to his ego.

He yawns when Kat suggests turning in, bobs his head in agreement. He raced three times too; he should have gone upstairs earlier …

Brody mocks him, because he gets to sleep in. Reese rolls his eyes—as if. Gord will have him in the pool, don’t worry.

They take the elevator up to the sixth floor, drop off Kat on the fourth, Brody on the sixth. Reese is on the seventh, so he waves good night to Brody and punches the door close button.

Then he hits the button for the fourth and rides back down. He ensures the coast is clear; he knows both Mel and Kat are on this floor, so he creeps down the hall, trying to be stealthy as he goes.

Like this is some kind of secret. Like he can’t just go visit Gabriel.

He knocks on the door, and the sound echoes. He glances about furtively, but the hall is just as empty as before. He listens to someone fumbling inside—heavy footsteps on tile, hands slamming against the door like someone falling, and then the distinctive clunk and clatter of the chain lock being drawn open.

The door opens a smidge and Gabriel peers out at him. Reese feels his lips quirk up. Gabriel opens the door more fully, and the smirk dies a quick death; Reese has to bite his lip to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

He sees Gabriel naked almost every day. They swim together—swimsuits don’t hide much, even if they have jammers on. And if they don’t, those suits hide even less. And then they shower and change together, and they live in the same house together, so Reese sees Gabriel in some state of undress almost every day.

But Gabriel standing there with his lounge pants sinking around his hips is possibly the hottest thing Reese has seen in a long time and he almost squirms uncomfortably, dragging his gaze up and down that long, lean torso, allowing himself to drink it all in like he never does at home, like he’s been fighting all day.

He glances around furtively, like this is some big secret. Then Gabriel stands aside and Reese steps confidently into the suite, says, “I see you’ve made yourself right at home since I left,” which, no, Gabriel hasn’t. His clothes are still meticulously packed away, the room still neat and tidy, not a thing out of place.

The door falls shut, and Reese whirls on Gabriel, hands slamming against the door. He grins broadly as Gabriel swallows his throat, visibly, noisily. Reese leans in close, whispers, “I saw you, don’t think I didn’t see you, you smug bastard.”

“Saw what?” Gabriel huffs, and Reese nips him for it. Bad attitudes aren’t going to fly, he thinks, grinning.

“Your smug face,” he says, “you think you’re hot shit, ‘cause you won that race, you think you’re better than me.”

He glances up at Gabriel, sees the smug argument in his eyes. He thinks he is better than Reese—because he is. He won three races tonight, and Reese hadn’t placed in either of his. Gabriel went to the Olympics and won four medals and Reese has nothing, nothing—

“I bet you think you proved something,” Reese hisses, his words breathy, hot and heavy, rolling over Gabriel’s skin, “I bet you think you deserve a reward for that or something.”

He peers up again, smirking, watches Gabriel freeze mid-inhalation. Much as he wants to punch Gabriel a bit, this is also fun.

“I won,” Gabriel manages. His voice is already thick with desire, buckling under the weight of it, and Reese has to bite back a groan. “I deserve something. Winner’s rights. You’re just mad you lost.”

Reese narrows his eyes. Gabriel grins. “‘Cause, y’know, winner take all. Might makes right, and the loser has to concede, has to give way to his better …”

“Told ya you think you’re better than me,” Reese huffs, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face.

“I won, you lost,” Gabriel says, his tone ringing with a strange sort of finality. “Now what’s my prize?”

Reese hesitates for only a fraction of a second, but it feels like eternity before his knees hit the cold tile of the suite foyer. He glances up at Gabriel, wondering if this is okay.

He maintains eye contact as he tugs down Gabriel’s pants, lets them pool about his ankles. Gabriel steps out of them, kicks them away, then stands stock-still.

Reese leans forward, only to be held back by Gabriel’s hand, palm pressing flat against his forehead. He frowns, then looks up.

Gabriel is frozen again; his throat works, and there’s something in his eyes, but no words come for a long moment. Finally, he says, “Are you sure?”

Reese allows his eyes to dart back and forth, trying to read Gabriel’s face. He bobs his head once, averts his eyes, and Gabriel draws his hand back, resigning himself to this.

Reese wraps a hand around him, firm, but he fumbles—he’s never done this before. He knows what he likes, but he’s never …

Touched another guy.

Gabriel exhales slowly, tilts his head toward the ceiling.

That’s something, he thinks, so he leans in and kisses the tip of Gabriel’s dick, strokes him a couple more times. He licks Gabriel experimentally, rolling his tongue across the head. Gabriel inhales, drops his head. Reese glances between him and his cock, then finally focuses on his dick, parts his lips over the head.

Gabriel grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks, hissing, “No teeth.”

Reese rears back. The hell is that supposed to mean? He glowers up at Gabriel. It’s not like he bit him, and hell, he has teeth in his mouth, what is he supposed to do?

Reese isn’t someone who’s easily deterred however, so he tries again, sliding down a little further this time. Gabriel grunts, but Reese pulls back, then slides down again.

He pulls off, licking at his lips, then wiping his mouth. He looks up at Gabriel and says, “Say something,” and fuck, his voice is already hoarse.

“Like what?” Gabriel asks. His gaze is glassy, far away—yet pinpointed on Reese.

“Anything,” Reese huffs, “it’s fuckin’ weird, you’re quiet, an’, like—”

His tone is edgy, full of nerves. Which makes sense, he thinks, it’s his first time. He has no idea what he’s doing, and Gabriel’s silent, he’s not getting any feedback on what’s working and what’s not.

“Sorry,” Gabriel says, “‘m … not the most vocal.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Reese grumbles, dips his head again. “Just … anything. The weather. Fuck.” And he swallows Gabriel down again, closing his eyes and sucking, like he’s trying to suck syllables out of the other man. Fuck. He needs to hear his voice, something, anything.

He’s not overly ambitious; he doesn’t try to swallow Gabriel down to the root, just takes whatever is easy, comfortable and wraps a hand around whatever doesn’t fit. He doesn’t really want to gag that much.

He’s not very coordinated, so there’s not much rhythm; the motions aren’t smooth either, halting and hesitant. He needs some sort of guidance.

He pulls up again, whining, “Gabby,” and Gabriel grits his teeth, tugs at his hair, guides him back down.

“It’s okay,” he says, clearing his throat, “like, keep going. It’s not bad, I—“

Reese exhales in exasperation. He turns his head a bit and Gabriel’s cock presses up against his cheek–rude. Fuck it though. He started this. So he sucks at sucking cock, just like he sucks at swimming, and Gabriel isn’t getting off. Gabriel probably won’t return the favor, he thinks, even though his cock twitches with the thought. This will probably end up being a sloppy, gross bj/handie, and they’ll never talk about it again, and Reese certainly isn’t going to get anything out of the deal.

He’s blown it. Literally.

But he can’t really dwell on it, just like he can’t dwell on shitty race results. So he just wraps a hand around Gabriel and jerks him. “You could’ve just said,” he mutters.

Gabriel twists his hair, guides his head back. “Go on,” he demands, “suck it.”

Reese gives him a look. He doesn’t want to be ordered around, especially not if Gabriel’s not getting anything out of this—he’s not gonna suck him just for the sake of doing it.

“C’mon,” Gabriel growls, “suck my cock, Pieces.”

Reese does nothing, just stares up at Gabriel, who drops his voice, whispers, “C’mon, where’s my prize? I won my race, isn’t that worth something? Don’t I get something for that?”

Reese is still unmoved. Gabriel’s got him pinned though, his grip slowly tightening, holding him in place as he rubs the tip of his cock across Reese’s lips. Reese keeps his lips pressed tightly together, even when Gabriel exhales sharply.

“C’mon,” the younger man urges, “or are you as shitty at this as you are at swimming? Huh?”

“Fuck you,” Reese whispers, and Gabriel shivers as his exhalation rolls across his sensitized flesh. Reese licks precum off his lips and Gabriel pushes forward, nearly slips his head into Reese’s mouth.

Reese still doesn’t break eye contact. Then he parts his lips, drops his gaze, and sucks on Gabriel’s tip.

Gabriel is impatient, it seems, because he forces Reese down, rolling his hips forward as he does. Reese grips his hips, digging his blunt nails into him. “C’mon,” the younger man snarls, “suck me off, let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours—”

Reese exhales against him, because there’s a flush spreading across his cheeks, so warm; he’s almost sweating, and he’s so hard it hurts. He wants to touch himself, wants Gabriel to touch him, but he doesn’t dare, just lets his nails bite deeper and deeper into Gabriel’s hips, especially when the brunet tugs on his hair a little harder, whispers hoarsely, “You like that idea, huh? You want me to shove you down on my cock, you want me to fuck your mouth—”

Reese groans around him, exhales again, more impatient this time.

Gabriel rocks his hips forward, shoving his cock in deeper. Reese gags. “You like it, huh? Being put on your knees, suck my cock—you know that’s as close to greatness as you’re gonna get, don’t you?”

Reese gags again, growls around him, and Gabriel shudders a bit, then leers at him, his teeth bared, and fuck, Reese is so hot; he spreads his legs a little and tries to get down closer to the floor, close enough to grind his hard cock down against the cool tiles—anything, anything for relief. “You keep trying to talk,” Gabriel growls, “didn’t anyone tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”

Gabriel draws back a bit; Reese digs his nails in deeper as he shoves back in. Reese grunts, and Gabriel pants, pulls back again. “That’s right,” he breathes, “that’s it, just take it, open wide for me, Pieces, say ‘ahh.’”

Reese snorts; it’s too funny.

Gabriel releases him, and he rises, panting, murmurs, “Only you would say that, what the fuck are you, a dentist?” And he wraps his hand tight around Gabriel, jerks him a bit more, until Gabriel knocks him away and finishes the job himself.

He watches, rapt, as Gabriel clutches at the door, his knees buckling, and he lets out this strangled cry, and Reese squawks a protest, turns and closes his eyes, but it’s too late. Gabriel has slid down to the floor, panting and flush, and fuck he’s a mess, and Reese is still throbbing away, but he’s covered in cum—it’s splashed across his shirt, his chin, and then Gabriel leans in, licks it off his chin, smears more on him in the process, then kisses him, and Reese groans, closes his eyes and wishes, wishes, wishes—

Want Gabby’s perspective on what’s going down? –> Going Under.

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