[ He laughs against Verso's mouth as his fingers drift along the line of his slack trouser waistband, kisses him again, warm and deep, tongue licking for a moment into the other man's mouth. ]
Do you think I'm a florist?
[ It's cute, a mirror to his own monsieur le pianiste, a title that might be more playful than wholly accurate, and he finds himself not caring at all if Verso calls him monsieur le fleuriste. What do they know about each other, really? One of them plays the piano, the other brought flowers. Perhaps it's enough.
He meets that laughing mouth again for another kiss, then works his way across cheek and the angle of his jaw to the other side of his throat, mindfully attentive to all the patches of skin he'd neglected kissing earlier. He mouths down along Verso's neck, paying particular attention to this spot or the next, whichever the man seems to like best, sweeping his tongue against warm, salt-spiked skin, nipping at the curve of his shoulder.
Verso had seduced him like a hunter, predatory intent in every touch, every kiss, burning him down to the ground. Gustave is warmer, sweeter, less taking and more giving, offering the adoration of his mouth and fingers to this man he has not been able to forget in nine long months. He shifts a little to give himself room, dips his fingers into the open front of Verso's pants to wrap warm, firm fingers around him. His own breath shudders out of him at the touch, lust curling back into his gut in a slow hot coil. He moves his hand firm and slow, long languid strokes as he lifts his head to watch Verso's face, studying his reactions, wanting to learn what makes him feel best. ]
Good.
[ A rough edge to his own voice as he savors the sensation of Verso in his hand: the weight and shape and length of him, soft hot skin hard against his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over the ridge of flesh, gently over his head. ]
no subject
Do you think I'm a florist?
[ It's cute, a mirror to his own monsieur le pianiste, a title that might be more playful than wholly accurate, and he finds himself not caring at all if Verso calls him monsieur le fleuriste. What do they know about each other, really? One of them plays the piano, the other brought flowers. Perhaps it's enough.
He meets that laughing mouth again for another kiss, then works his way across cheek and the angle of his jaw to the other side of his throat, mindfully attentive to all the patches of skin he'd neglected kissing earlier. He mouths down along Verso's neck, paying particular attention to this spot or the next, whichever the man seems to like best, sweeping his tongue against warm, salt-spiked skin, nipping at the curve of his shoulder.
Verso had seduced him like a hunter, predatory intent in every touch, every kiss, burning him down to the ground. Gustave is warmer, sweeter, less taking and more giving, offering the adoration of his mouth and fingers to this man he has not been able to forget in nine long months. He shifts a little to give himself room, dips his fingers into the open front of Verso's pants to wrap warm, firm fingers around him. His own breath shudders out of him at the touch, lust curling back into his gut in a slow hot coil. He moves his hand firm and slow, long languid strokes as he lifts his head to watch Verso's face, studying his reactions, wanting to learn what makes him feel best. ]
Good.
[ A rough edge to his own voice as he savors the sensation of Verso in his hand: the weight and shape and length of him, soft hot skin hard against his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over the ridge of flesh, gently over his head. ]
I want you here.