black glass
The heat coming through the black leather of the one glove is fuckin' excruciating and perfect and tempting and oh all under one roof, Murphy thinks.
But it's not like they had time to properly fix the situation. Not like Connor wasn't getting everything out of it that he needed, and panting each breath heavy and moist against his ear. Through clenched teeth and not. Not like it isn't wanking in an elevator on emergency break, when they're supposed to be taking 'separate exits' and down the street.
And Murphy can see his reflection every time he smacks his head back. When the glove sticks and Connor pulls back, hand shaky, and starts again—literally ramming into Murphy's thigh, like he's timing it. Making noises that might melt gold. Melt the glass right off the walls. Melt Murphy's bones, if he's not careful.
He feels them starting to.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ you—" and it was a bit superfluous, yeah. Because then the ride's over and Connor's either ripping his soul out through his mouth as he kisses him, or putting it back. Wiping the palmside of his glove off on his shirt hidden under jacket. Cuffing him in the chin and pointing to his still zipped down and opened jeans. Just one step ahead.
Murphy breathes before he pushes off the walls of their box and leaves.