A room always feels scooped out after the end of a game: marks taken off and money cleared, but all the little accessories left trailing: smoke like a whisper in the thin air, adrenaline a low buzz rising as he shifts his legs apart over the table's edge, feels a steadier hand pull his zipper down. There's a spill of cards, three hands' worth, scattered over the table's green felt, and a name whose absence echoes like a shout between them. One slides beneath his elbow as he pushes himself up to watch Danny brace himself between his knees. "Should I be asking?" he says.
Their eyes flick together, then glance off again amicably: some pretenses are still worth keeping. "What," Danny says, with fingers still crooked against the inseam of Rusty's slacks. "Like you've done this before."
Rusty flicks expressively.
Danny quirks a brow -- but it's a beat too late, and Rusty knows the game, anyway. "All right -- much as teenage boys might think otherwise, it doesn't count when they're your hands."
"Hey. Least I've got a good idea of what to do with--"
But his breath hitches as a thumb drags down through the parting of his trousers, rubbing firm over the tip before pressing lower. He's conscious of Danny's attention as he always is: the way his gaze focuses, spotlight-clear, on the way Rusty's splayed himself back against the table, follows the sharp rise of his chest through a hitched breath as Danny's palm slides beneath the cloth. Unscarred hands, cardsharp's fingers rolling lazily together to trace the shape of his cock through his briefs.
A fist thuds against the table as his head lolls back. "Shit."
"Yeah," Danny says, rougher. "That's pretty much what I thought."
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SOMEWHERE AT THE BACK OF A STRIPCLUB
Their eyes flick together, then glance off again amicably: some pretenses are still worth keeping. "What," Danny says, with fingers still crooked against the inseam of Rusty's slacks. "Like you've done this before."
Rusty flicks expressively.
Danny quirks a brow -- but it's a beat too late, and Rusty knows the game, anyway. "All right -- much as teenage boys might think otherwise, it doesn't count when they're your hands."
"Hey. Least I've got a good idea of what to do with--"
But his breath hitches as a thumb drags down through the parting of his trousers, rubbing firm over the tip before pressing lower. He's conscious of Danny's attention as he always is: the way his gaze focuses, spotlight-clear, on the way Rusty's splayed himself back against the table, follows the sharp rise of his chest through a hitched breath as Danny's palm slides beneath the cloth. Unscarred hands, cardsharp's fingers rolling lazily together to trace the shape of his cock through his briefs.
A fist thuds against the table as his head lolls back. "Shit."
"Yeah," Danny says, rougher. "That's pretty much what I thought."