He doesn't look at the mirror, because he's too busy looking at Corbin's sweet, tight little body. But he wants Corbin to look. He wants him to see the soft faces he makes, the waves of his flush, the way his mouth parts or his eyebrows pitch and pinch and knit. Quentin leaves him there for just a moment to get the lube, which Corbin's left on the bed, and to take off his own shirt.
He's got freckles of his own on his shoulders and the sides of his neck, a lifetime of fair skin in various places, and some hair on his chest, some on his stomach as well. A dark trail from navel to the waistband of his jeans, which are open but not displaced yet.
Quentin squeezes a generous dollop of lube onto his fingers.
"It's gonna be cold at first," he warns, and puts his lips gently against Corbin's shoulder. "Spread your feet a little bit. Just a little. Come on, sweet heart."
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He doesn't look at the mirror, because he's too busy looking at Corbin's sweet, tight little body. But he wants Corbin to look. He wants him to see the soft faces he makes, the waves of his flush, the way his mouth parts or his eyebrows pitch and pinch and knit. Quentin leaves him there for just a moment to get the lube, which Corbin's left on the bed, and to take off his own shirt.
He's got freckles of his own on his shoulders and the sides of his neck, a lifetime of fair skin in various places, and some hair on his chest, some on his stomach as well. A dark trail from navel to the waistband of his jeans, which are open but not displaced yet.
Quentin squeezes a generous dollop of lube onto his fingers.
"It's gonna be cold at first," he warns, and puts his lips gently against Corbin's shoulder. "Spread your feet a little bit. Just a little. Come on, sweet heart."