Glum and Dumb
Glum and dumb, he said, pushing Skittery away. Those dark eyes burn with accusations. The same snarled excuses that burned over Skittery's skin only the night before. Skittery never thought words could burn until he met Racetrack. Until he felt the snarl of the other boy's need against the bend of his throat.
"This is your fault," his voice is a growl against Skittery, his hips rocking forward, rubbing against the curve of his ass. Skittery doesn't say anything, knows it wont change the litany against his skin as groping hands work his slacks down, too rough. The button almost pops, "you make me wrong."
The sheets are rough under Skittery's bare hips but when Race pushes into him, still too hard, unprepared and punishing, the friction is delicious.
This evil is seductive and Skittery accepts that. He knows he has the real power. Knows it in the pull of Racetrack's hand on him as the dark eyed Italian thrusts forward.
A wanton moan escapes Skittery's lips.
It's what Racetrack wants. A show of surrender, compliance, something – anything – that makes the vulgar want you, need you whispers, wet with kisses along the back of Skittery's neck okay.
Something to forgive them.
Racetrack's body tenses, white hot in the seconds it takes him to come. His cry is guttural and low and Skittery can pretend he doesn't hear two love you syllables against the shell of his ear.
Skittery can pretend it is Race's hand, not words, that have him emptying himself on rough sheets and over Racetrack's knuckles.
They lay like that for a second before Racetrack pulls away, kisses him like he cares. Skittery rolls onto his back and listens to Racetrack leave, feet echoing Skittery's racing heartbeat.
He's alone in the dark but he's smiling.