amrev_intrigues | modern au pt 2

Burr stands, walks slowly and deliberately to the pants, turns and looks at Jefferson as he fiddles with them.

"I suppose I should try these on," he says, innocently. Makes a show of it, fiddling with the buttons on his pants, as though considering. "What do you think?" Burr asks, and he turns around so Jefferson can see, leans with his butt against the table and brings his hands to his zipper, drags it slowly up and down. "Should I take them off?"

Wants to see Thomas flush, before he starts dragging them down. His shirt is tucked and long, so that his underwear is not visible. So that he could be wearing nothing at all, beneath the edges. Cool air on naked skin, as he pulls the fabric lower, guides it gently over one garter, two, until the pants are on the floor and he is steping out of them, in delicate silk stockings and lacy straps.

His lingerie is one of the nicer things he owns. A work expense, after all.

He is a little hard, from the feeling of being so exposed, and in public, no less. There is a small bulge, tenting the fabric over his crotch, and he sways his hips, bunching muscles. A bit like a dance.

Edited 2022-06-22 00:46 (UTC)

Widened eyes, as Burr exposes himself. -- And a glance towards the door, which is noticeably unlocked. The stockings show off his legs to incredible effect, the subtle lines of muscle, the slim and smooth thighs. Thomas is most certainly flushing, and he can't tear his eyes away.

He, again, is in the well-fitted jeans and button-up, with the sleeves rolled up and the blazer already discarded. He isn't sure if he should stay here and watch or move to his feet and press Burr back against the table, and he wants both at once.

Appalled at his own daring, he chooses the second option, closing the distance between them and kissing Burr immediately, right away, dipping his tongue into Burr's mouth, and nudging him back towards the hearty and solid-looking table, sliding a hand up Burr's smooth thigh as he sits back on the table's edge.

"I really would have been content just with a fitting," he says, "truly -- you look delectable."

Burr wraps his legs around Jefferson's hips as he is lifted, pressed back. He moans, when Jefferson kisses his, shivers, when a hand smooths up his thigh, curling over his ass. Plays it up, everything, anything, to please Jefferson.

"I'm glad you think so," Burr says, breathy, before he is tangling his fingers in Jefferson's hair and diving back in--slow, filth, wet kisses, grinding their pelvises together.

Thomas could fuck him, if he wanted. Burr is already prepared, and it would take less than ten minutes, if the were quick about it. Burr takes Jefferson's hand and guides it back, lets him feel.

Of course, he could simply jerk him off, or use his mouth. Or give him a lap dance. That would be nice. Watching Jefferson's face while Burr ground him out against his own pelvis.

Burr reaches between them. Palms him, and if Jefferson lets him, undoes buttons to slip his hand inside, wrapping around his hot length.

He means it, he had no expectation of this -- but how can he be expected to decline when Burr presents himself so well, when his legs would look so good wrapped around Jefferson's waist? Maybe he should let himself go a bit wild, and take what he wants.

He sends another nervous glance at the door. "We can't -- we'll be caught." They have another few moments, but likely no more. His hips are rolling against Burr's, a parody of fucking, a simulacrum of what he really wants to do, which is to feel again Burr's silky, wet passage, to watch him come apart, to control the sway of his hips. Burr's hand wraps around him, and he's halfway gone, nuzzling at Burr's throat and pressing ardent kisses up his jaw.

Burr is flexible. He knows what to do, when someone is hesitant. And he wants more of Jefferson--the little kisses, that particular smell, the becoming flush that makes his freckles darken and sweep over his nose and cheeks.

He unfolds his legs, leans back on the table, and opens himself. One leg stretching on either side of himself, feet on the table, ass forward, cool air on his hole, making his skin gooseflesh, shiver.

He still has Thomas's cock in his hand, supported on his other elbow, and he tugs him gently forward, till the head is just there, touching his rim. He's still loose enough, and slick enough, from where he'd prepared himself, earlier.

"Thomas," he says, moans, pornographic, and rolls his hips upward, thrusting against nothing. Shirt rucked up now, wearing no underwear, cock hard and straining. "Please, fuck me. I want to feel you, inside me." Another little buck, till the head of Thomas's cock is just inside, and he shudders, moans, falls back against the table.

The head of his cock catches on the slippery ring of muscle. Burr prepared himself for this, Thomas realizes. He imagined it beforehand, perhaps pressed his fingers inside himself, perhaps teased himself in expectation --

He fucks forward, in a smooth and unexpectedly confident thrust. They have to be quick, so he sets a demanding pace, instinct taking over -- he is determined, very determined, to give this man pleasure, even as he takes it for himself.

His thumb plays along the stretched muscle around his cock, as he pauses, briefly. It staggers him that Burr's body yields so easily to penetration. He can't imagine that his own would do the same, but perhaps it would, perhaps it would be a sweet sort of sensation to let someone else inside of him. Does Burr find it sweet? Thomas wonders. Does Burr crave this? Or is he pretending, so very well? His hand moves to Burr's cock, moving in tight strokes in a rhythm that mirrors the fucking.

It truly doesn't take long: he spills in hot pulses deep within Burr, biting back the things he wants to say, filthy things. If Burr hasn't come yet, Thomas pulls him up and kisses him, hand working fiercely at his cock.

Burr was telling the truth before--their first time--when he said he didn't need preparation before fucking. Thomas pushes in wonderfully and Burr melts, laying back on the table. Let himself he rocked by it, drinking in each sound--panting breath, slapping skin.

He holds his legs open, his knees, and let's Jefferson take his fill. There is something so erotic about it--being used in this way, Jefferson coming inside him and pulling out, leaving him messy. He comes quickly too, biting down against Jefferson's neck as an orgasm is tugged out of him.

"Good boy," Burr whispers, trembling, doesn't realize he has said anything at all.

He catches the cum with his own hand, and the cum running down his thigh. Maintains eye contact, as he licks it off. They have to be clean and discreet, after all. Tucks Jefferson back into his jeans, and quickly straightens his own clothing.

Some of his come has landed on Jefferson’s fingers, and he feeds those to Burr, dragging fingertips down his tongue as Burr licks him clean. “Do you like that?” Jefferson asks, still breathless, as Burr’s hands tuck away his sensitive length, “being stained with me, and Mulligan just in the next room…” and it occurs to him: “did he feel how you were dressed for me?” The thought evokes a combination of embarrassment and thrill; he hardly knows what to do with himself. He stops Burr from cleaning up the come left at his entrance. “Leave it,” he suggests, thinking that Burr will be able to feel it, the wet of it, while he tries on clothes. Kisses Burr with less hesitation this time related to tasting semen. It seems Burr brings out something filthy in Jefferson too.

He has no concept of how long they’ve taken; he was as quick as possible, but he couldn’t be expected to keep time while Burr’s body took him in, folded around him. He retreats, looking nervously again at the door, which has not budged or emitted noise.

“This set,” and he points out one pair of pants and an accompanying jacket. A dark charcoal. “If you wore it, you would do well with pink or maroon in the shirt — a contrast. See how it fits.” He wonders if Mulligan will notice the way Burr’s lips are damper, redder — if his own flush will betray them.

Pulls up his underwear, wiggles a little, when he feels Jefferson's spend trickling out of him.

"He did," Burr says, as he pulls the pants up. "Why do you think he gave us time alone?" These pants don't make his ass look as nice. Perhaps the others.

"I would have blown you in the car, if you'd driven. But this is nice too." Looking up, watching Jefferson's face as he pulls the pair back off, exposing his lingerie once more. He likes it when he flushes. He looks good, flushed. Perhaps Burr will have to go all out for the event. He'll have to see what can fit, discreetly, beneath the suit.

Burr says good boy and Jefferson looks at him in a different kind of shock, his hand pausing -- there's no reason he should like it, given that Burr is younger and not the one paying, but Jefferson isn't at all averse to the idea of Burr taking him in hand.

--

"He gave us--" Jefferson is scandalized. He can only hope that Mulligan wasn't intending they did that, not on one of his tables.

"Don't look at the -- hips." Stops himself from saying what he was really looking at.

Jefferson steps up to him, and turns him to face the mirror. "Look at the length, and the proportions of the legs. These are pleated, which means they rest a little higher on the waist, and are looser in the leg. It's very classic. The other is flat front -- try it."

When Burr has those on, Jefferson slips in behind him, hands on Burr's waist, sliding to his hips. His touch is soft, and would be easy to shrug off -- if Burr made any sign of disliking it, Jefferson would retreat immediately. But as long as he doesn't, Jefferson lets himself grow bold. He may be spent, but the focus on Burr's body has him attending closely.

"These are slimmer," he says. "A bit more tapered. Lower on the hips," and one hand wanders around to palm Burr's ass. "They're too long for you -- they shouldn't actually touch any shoes you're wearing, but come a bit short." It's clear to him that Burr doesn't know, isn't aware of how a suit should fit, so he's providing a bit of education.

A knock on the door, and Mulligan enters. "Have any thoughts about the cut of the trousers?" he asks -- "aw, young love," and Jefferson pulls back from Burr, flushing again.

He melts back a bit, when Jefferson steps up behind him. His heart pounds a bit, his palms damp, when those hands come down on his waist, and he meets Jefferson's eyes in the mirror. He can still feel the stickiness of Jefferson's come, but this somehow feels more intimate. This touching, this desire to be close when there is no sexual gratification to be gained. Jefferson palms him and Burr lets out a blissful little sigh, pushes back against him, let's his head bump back against his chest.

He likes when Jefferson explains these things to him. Likes Jefferson liking him, wanting to be near him, to teach him. Jefferson steps back when Mulligan enters, and Burr feels a little pang of loss, but likes too the innocence of it, when just before Jefferson had him bent backwards.

"I think Jefferson likes these ones," Burr says, "If they can be made a little shorter," and will have no shyness regarding taking them off now, to change back into his regular pants, if the tailor is not to leave.

He feels better now. More self assured, by Jefferson's open want. By how well Burr controls him.

"The ones I make you will be fresh, from a similar pattern," says Mulligan, not condescendingly, just frank and informative. "How about jacket?"

"Two-button is the default," says Jefferson, helping Burr into the jacket that matches the trousers. "Three is also common. When you have more than one button, never fasten the lowest. It's a silly rule."

"The jacket'll be structured so the last button stays undone," corrects Mulligan, "so it is definitely not a silly rule."

Jefferson sighs. "You can tell the jacket fits because the seam is right at the shoulder, the sleeve shows about a half-inch of shirt cuff, and there are no wrinkles here or here when the jacket closes. This one fits almost right. See -- it hangs loose, just here. It's too large on you. But the shoulders are perfect."

For an off-the-rack fit, this would be good enough, Jefferson thinks. Burr looks right in a suit. He looks powerful, in a way that's understated, calm. It shows off his posture, his elegance.

"You're gonna look so fucking good," says Mulligan. "Here. What about this?"

He holds a sample of a patterned fabric in front of Burr. A dark red-purple.

Jefferson looks to Burr. "What do you think?"

"It's my favorite color," Burr says, and he rubs the fabric between his fingers. Soft, velvety, but not. Definitely not something he could afford on his own. His robe and stocking were nice, and better than a lot of what he owned, but they too probably looked cheap to Jefferson.

Burr isn't paying. He's never even set foot in a store like this. He likes fine things, yes, but. Well. This is on another level. He used to wear nice suits, before Theodosia had gotten sick, but they'd never been bespoke. Tailored at best.

"Pick what you like, of course," Burr says, with another stab of embarrassment. He isn't here to share his opinions. It's probably annoying, that they have to do this at all. How many escorts didn't have outfits ready, for something like this?

Jefferson could have given money to the agency, had them handle getting Burr something to wear. But he hadn't. Another opportunity to see each other. Burr's paid him back, partially, at least.

He normally has no compunctions regarding taking what he can get from clients, but, well. This feels different.

Edited 2022-06-24 04:10 (UTC)

Jefferson is already smiling -- a small and sweet smile, eyes cast away from Burr. He nods, at Mulligan. "Then it's perfect." His hand brushes down Burr's spine, in something like reassurance. He would be blind not to notice Burr's discomfort, and the way he willingly silences himself and his opinions. He doesn't know how to explain that he wants a companion -- ah, but if he wanted a true companion, perhaps he shouldn't have paid for him.

Mulligan is obviously assuming this is some sort of sugar daddy relationship. Embarrassing, but keeps Burr's secret.

"A vest, too, and tie," Jefferson says. "Bow tie and straight necktie, so you have the matching set, in the future. A black pocket square, I think?"

They go through the process of selecting the blazer's details, as well, including the width of the lapels, and the lining.

As they leave, Thomas touches Burr's arm. "If you would like," he says, "I'm happy to drive you home. Especially if..." The flush graces his cheeks again. "If you were in earnest, before."

Burr shivers, when Jefferson touches his back. Leans back into him, the same way he had when Jefferson touched his ass. He nearly protests, when Jefferson orders him a suit and bowtie. Bites his tongue, smiles sweetly. He's not giving the suit back, then. Perhaps he could sell it, and buy something nice for Theo. After the event of course. And after he's sure Thomas won't want him for anything more. Once Thomas is done with him.

Burr is a stepping stone, after all. If he does his job right, maybe Thomas will be confident enough to get his own boyfriend. Girlfriend. If Burr does his job right, shouldn't Thomas never leave?

His automatic response is to say no, when Thomas offers him a ride. He loves far away, in a bad part of town. In a building that's embarrassing to look at. Oh, but then Thomas is flushing again, that beautiful, wonderful freckled flush.

"Of course I was earnest," Burr smiles, leans up, his tip toes, to kiss Thomas soundly, nipping at his lips. "Or did my display in the tailor shop not convince you? I can feel you--each time I move," and he twines Jefferson's fingers in his own.

Edited 2022-06-25 04:20 (UTC)

His hands drop to Burr's waist, when he comes in for a kiss -- strokes along his ribs, to his hips. Feeling the solidity of him, his physical presence, the swell of breath in his body.

"You've made me insatiable," Thomas confesses, short of breath, again. Perhaps, even, Burr has done too well, in awakening him from his grieved slumber. It scares him, and and it makes him want Burr to full more than an emptiness in his bed.

Which is silly. He barely knows the man.

Jefferson drives a hybrid, electric and fuel both. Not a Tesla. One might expect someone as rich as him to have spent as much as he could on a luxury car, but he didn't care to; he was more interested in environmental impact, at the time. Inside, though, he sets his phone in the cupholder and it lights up, from apparently a wireless charger.

"The address?" Jefferson asks, fingers hovering over the screen for the GPS. He realizes then that Burr wouldn't necessarily want Jefferson knowing the adddress so: "Or... I suppose somewhere nearby?"

"It's alright," Burr says--a little quiet thing, on an exhale. "The Bronx, Bedford Park. 1137."

His hand coming across the center console to squeeze Jefferson thigh, so he doesn't have to look at him, to see his face, or know what he thinks of driving all the way to that neighborhood. Raising a child there is bad enough.

"Thank you for the suit. You didn't need to," he says. "And the ride."

He waits till they're moving. Till Jefferson comes to a stoplight, to let his hand creep higher. Fingertips tapping, dancing over the crotch of his pants. Teasing, and pressing down harder. Rubbing through fabric.

He does look now. Watches Jefferson's face as the man drives, watches his fingers on the steering wheel. Soaks in that intoxicating feeling--of a cock hardening beneath his hand.

"You seem embarrassed," Burr breathes, "yet your body reacts so well. Do you want me to suck you off like a common street whore, where anyone can see?"

Oh, he can feel the head--the definition of it through the fabric. Stiff enough now to massage easily. He traces the edge of the head, trails in a circle around where the slit should be, for all he sits innocently in the passenger seat.

Edited 2022-06-26 05:07 (UTC)

How he stirs! So quickly, after the last time; though, that was quick, and Jefferson is more inclined to long, teasing encounters, slow explorations.

Yes, he wants it. Even more, he pictures Burr going down on him, cock deep in his throat, and then having Burr stay just there, drooling, huffing little breaths, Jefferson's fingers scratching along his scalp. For long, long minutes --

"An uncommon whore," Jefferson corrects. "Because you like it -- I think?" A little hesitation there, but he believes that there's genuine desire here. That Burr is intrigued by him, drawn in. Jefferson has a certain gravity, a certain tendency to pull others into his orbit; he knows this. He can usually feel when it's happening. "I think you relish it."

A breath -- "Do you want me to use a condom?" he asks. "As I've been inside you already, tonight," because of the taste, and god, what that sentence does to him. His cock twitches, at the memory, and the touch of Burr's hand.

"I want to taste you," Burr says, as his hand continues to work. "I want to feel it--" without the plastic, without anything between them. Skin to skin.

He's working himself up. The car is moving again, though it will take a while to get to the Bronx from Manhattan. Traffic is at a standstill. Jefferson's windows are tinted, but Burr can see crowds around them, as his hand creeps up the hard outline in Jefferson's pants, pulls the zipper down and slips his hand inside.

Warm. Very warm, and how Jefferson reacts, when Burr takes him in hand, when he works the cock free, exposes it to cool air. A very pretty cock--long, and slender enough to not hurt.

It feels different. More intimate, more new, to have Jefferson's naked cock in his hand, in the middle of a New York street. To work it up and down, to drag the pads of his fingers over the head, sliding back the foreskin. To bend over and taste it.

His seat belt is undone, as he leans over the center console, and props himself in Jefferson's lap. A stretch, but oddly comfortable, to be resting half against his stomach, to have his cock standing there erect before his face. He lets his breath puffs against it, before extending his tongue, giving little tentative licks as his fingers continue to trail up and down.

"Do you like that?" He breathes. "How does it feel? Tell me." Because he wants to hear Jefferson--the hitches in his voice, when Burr leans forward and seals his lips over the head. Not pushing down, but dragging his tongue back and forth in slow, torturous motions.

He hums, a little pleased sound, at the taste of him. At having him in this way, and twists his other hand tight into Jefferson's thigh. Sucks, and slides wet lips lower.

Jefferson's cock twitches, and Burr pulls back, just for a moment, before diving back down. "Good boy," he purrs, petting a hand up and down Jefferson's thigh. "You're doing so well."

The very structure of the car works in their favor, and Jefferson's height, both combining to give the impression that the dash and the car doors rise protectively high.

Jefferson's duty, as a man, a driver, a person with a conscience, is to push Burr away and ask him to hold off until they're somewhere more private. He does not do this, and he is an idiot for it. Switches to driving with his left hand, and his right weaves into Burr's hair, spreads protectively and possessively across the back of his skull.

For a long moment, he seems frozen, in a kind of astonishment, as Burr's breath dissipates on his skin, the tentative tongue laps at him. Tentative? No, it must be teasing; there is no possible way Burr isn't confident of Jefferson's desire. And Burr shows it, immediately after: Jefferson has to brake a little too hard at the next stoplight as Burr's hot mouth envelops him. His cock twitches at Burr's commanding touch.

"Oh, the windows," he remembers, and he pulls down the sunshade on his side. It's probably illegal to drive with these down at night, but it provides an extra shield of privacy. As he does, his thumb strokes Burr's stretched lips. He continues stroking, Burr's cheek, the back of his neck, occasionally urging him deeper as Jefferson sighs with sensation. "Oh, what can I say? You are a lurid thing -- if you were conjured from my fevered -- mm! Ah -- debauched imagination, you could not be more enticing."

The click of the turn signal; he turns into the narrow, cramped parking lot of a closed restaurant. Flicks the car off, and then he's cupping Burr's head in his hands. "I can't, I can't focus with you like this," he says, breathless -- "I've heard of a wicked tongue, but you are all wicked -- your palate, your lips, even," as Burr takes him deeper, "even that muscle, ah, Aaron, the muscle at your throat--"

His hips twitch up, breath escaping in a whimper. Good boy makes him shiver, a wave of goosebumps. He lets Burr urge him into a rhythm, but it's a slow one, lingering and sensual.

"Don't hold back," Burr says, when he pulls off with a sinful, wet pop. He knows his lips are shining wet, swollen, red, and ke dips back down immediately to flatten his tongue against the underside, running down, down, to lick over balls. "I want you to use me," Burr says, "I want you to fuck me."

And he pulls back then--a quick, aggressive dive to take Jefferson down to the base, to slide the head in and down until he feels it gagging him, hitting sensitive skin, turning just so, relaxing, letting it slide deeper, until his nose hits Jefferson's skin. He takes care to breathe through his nose, to go relaxed and pliant as he bobs up and down. And he does make those sound--the wet ones, and the choking ones, because men like those, sometimes. Like it messy and sloppy, and who is Burr to refuse?

He wraps his own hand over Jefferson's, in his hair. Urges him to fuck himself on Burr's mouth. To use him as quickly and harshly as he pleases. Burr likes it, when he alternates those quick, brutal, punching thrusts with grinding Burr's head down onto his cock and leaving him there. He's limp--he takes it, and Burr is the good one, despite what he said.

He's painfully hard himself, afraid he'll rip out the button on his pants. Weak little gyrations against the interior of the car. He'd like to see Thomas stretched around him, the way he's stretched around Thomas. Perhaps he'll even think about it later, when he brings himself off in the shower, washing Thomas's come from his thighs and ass.

Edited 2022-07-20 04:51 (UTC)

"I'm not," and his fingers go tight on the back of Burr's neck, a soft wounded sound as Burr lavishes attention on his balls. "No, I am, but I -- I want to savor you, you're worth savoring." He cannot breathe, with Burr so tight around him, so deep on him.

He sees Burr's hips twitch against the seat, or against the console, hard to tell the way he's draped over, but that sends a fierce pulse of desire through him. He is aflame -- "Oh," and he sounds a little shocked, "you like this." This, this is what spurs him to roughness, because he can see how Burr reacts to it. "You like to be used -- did you think about it, when you prepared yourself earlier?" Did you think of me, he wants to ask, because it is so easy to lose himself in this fantasy, of lovers, can't keep their hands off each other even for just a car ride, desperate to touch and feel. But it is just a little too pathetic, he thinks, and he pushes that thought, that question away.

Strings of drool, half-visible, darkening denim fabric. Thomas feels near-frantic with desire, seized by the urge to possess, something unfamiliar and needy and skirting around a darkness in him that he does not care to touch.

"You take me so deep," and his voice is gasping. "I can feel your throat --" And he holds Aaron there, a moment longer, with Aaron's eyes watering and his hips working, working against so little.

Aaron does the same as before: apparently endlessly patient, sloppy and wonderful, and then as Thomas starts to twitch up, when his balls start to tighten and his breath comes quicker, Aaron sucks him hard, and Thomas comes just as hard, completely losing himself in it for a split-instant.

The copiousness of it astonishes him. His cock twitches as he shoots semen in Burr's mouth, on his tongue, and he has time to withdraw and mark Burr with the rest. On his lips, his cheek. Thomas is hypnotized with it: takes himself in hand, not yet softened, and uses the head of his cock to smear it against Burr's skin. It is lewd and indulgent, and he cannot look away.

He drags Burr onto him again, to lap the rest from his cock, to clean him. He softens slowly, and Burr is obediently on him, not wiping away the come. "You're wonderful," he says, softly -- "Look at you -- I've never seen anything like you."

Burr takes him. Let's himself be choked by him, the pulse of his own need painful. They are awful, filthy--pressed down on Jefferson's cock in a parked car in the middle of the city. He sucks hard, swallows greedily, when Jefferson comes, surging a little forward, thinks of fighting when he is drawn back--glad that he hadn't, when Jefferson releases hot on his face, smears it around with the tip of his cock.

Burr is panting, and plaint, and he gives a little groan when he feels the wet there, staining him. He licks Jefferson clean greedily, tucks him back into jeans stained dark by Burr's saliva.

Jefferson is a mess--cheeks stained red, but Burr is worse. His pants still uncomfortably tight, painted with Jefferson's come, hair mussed and clothes rumpled. But Jefferson doesn't tell him to clean himself, so Burr leans up, pushes Jefferson back against the car seat, and kisses him. Licks into him, fucks him with his tongue.

Edited 2022-07-20 15:54 (UTC)

His lips are parting before the kiss connects -- and so it becomes an open-mouthed, clashing thing, the moment where they touch harsh enough to make the car move a little on its shock absorbers. It is biting, raw, hungry. Thomas wants to pull him close; he wants to know what it would be like to have Aaron ride him, close and cramped and desperate, in the car. He wants, he wants; this is all unlocking something in him, a series of careful, neat closed doors, and within the wild creature that Thomas might become.

He does drag Aaron as close as he can, half over the central console. He breathes in quick gasps before he tangles again with Aaron's fierce, questing tongue. One hand has grabbed at the fabric of Aaron's sweater -- the other presses at the junction of his legs, finds where Aaron is so, so hard, and grinds his palm there, holds steady for Aaron to thrust against if that's what he wants. He can smell and taste his own come, and far from being disgusted, he's fiery with it. He kisses it off of Burr's cheek, licks, and then surges against his mouth again.

Burr likes the kissing. Likes more the greedy hands the drag him over the center console. It's a good thing he's so slight, that he can fit here, back to the driver's window, and open his mouth to Thomas's attentions.

He can't get off like this, in the confines of too-tight jeans, working against Jefferson's palm. He doesn't want to, though he does let himself relax against the other man. He likes the warmth, the feeling of him, warm through layers.

There's something about it. Something appealing, in reducing Thomas to this whole Burr himself remains still hard. It seems more like a favor, more like he's giving Thomas something, instead of Thomas taking. He tucks his head into the crook of Thomas's neck, breathes in.

"You've awakened me." Thomas lets his breath escape, touches his lips to Burr's temple in a gesture too tender for this. "I wanted to be intimate again, I--" He stops himself. "I thought of you, quite a bit," he says, instead. "Absurd, and I'm sure you hear that entirely too often."

He would do well to keep his heart out of the mix, here.

"I am under no illusions," he adds. That this is anything more than a job, no matter how genuine Aaron seems in intimate moments. "But if this event goes well, I would like to discuss an ongoing arrangement."

Burr has him. And he needs only to reel him in. To make sure he himself doesn't get pulled away as well, a catch too big for him. Old Man and the Sea. He always hated that story.

And it scares him. Makes him less--makes him feel less in control. He doesn't like that he likes Thomas. He doesn't like that he doesn't know what he would do, if Thomas changed his mind about him.

But--they're not too far gone, are they? Thomas hasn't said anything about the bruises on his face. Or the address Burr have him. The bad neighborhood. It's still a business transaction. And it's about setting expectations.

But Burr always was one to get carried away.

"I moved another client for you," he says. Which is a lie, but Burr had moved his schedule around. He's got his fingers in Jefferson's collar, and he trails fingertips there at the edge, where skin is showing. He can't flush on command. Not really. But he knows what to say to make himself blush, which is functionally the same. "I thought about you earlier, when I was in the shower--" when he prepped himself. "I know it's just a job," he says, quickly. And it's all part of the dance. So what if he's not lying? "But I--you see me," Burr says. "Not just our bodies. But our thoughts."

Edited 2022-10-24 04:08 (UTC)

modern au pt 2

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