Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Royal Pains.
Also. This is part one of who the fuck knows.
He admires, for a long while (enough time for the boy to start squirming and cursing), the curve of a smooth back, the wonderfully pale skin. The smoothness of muscle and youth, wonderfully encased in a damaged body.
The fact that Tucker is broken provides a level to this that he doesn't want to admit.
Skimming his fingertips down the expanse of skin, he relishes in the shiver that follows. He'd say something about Tucker being sensitive and new and beautiful, but he doesn't want to ruin the moment. He'll keep it in his head. Make his hands busy—slowly working against the skin and muscle until Tucker is flushed and breathy, arching up against for something more.
And Boris, being the gentleman that he is, provides.
Turning him over, he doesn't hesitate—swiftly pushing him down farther into the mattress, giving Tucker the roughness and intensity that he isn't allowed anywhere else.
Boris briefly wonders - between nips and grinding down harder, of course - if this is why Tucker seeks him out—because he's willing to indulge. Because he's willing to peel off clothing, despite possible threats to his well-being.
He's willing to bite and leave little marks, to push and take, instead of coddle and protect, as Tucker is so used to. All of this is within reason of course—he knows his limits, and he understands Tucker's (perhaps more than the boy understands himself, but at this point he's only seen Tucker with his pants down around his ankles and breathless, so who knows how much insight he has). There's no cause for concern. He's in control of this situation.
Tucker breaks away, grappling and clawing for that stupid three-piece suit to go away. For him to touch as well, because he's never fully satisfied with what he has. A moaned plea rumbles out and Boris can't deny him this either. He raises himself up a bit, the pang of irritation over his clothes wrinkling and rumpling lessening with each twitch of Tucker's hips.
Apparently it doesn't happen fast enough.
Impatience wears on the boy, and before Boris can stop him, he's already stroking himself without abandon—groaning, rolling his hips, filthy and showy in a way that makes Boris stop what he's doing and watch. Captivated. Terribly interested in these happenings and if Tucker will really finish himself off before they can even get to an honest fucking.