They were good at turning each other's crank; swapped between 'em, the lead, the follow, swaying like prizefighters; the throw, the block, the rough-hewn artistry of knowing each other better than either of them ever wanted to; picking up the pieces and dusting them off, even though the cracks would always be there, just barely visible, glued together as well as possible.
Yesterday, it was Ray splayed across the hood of the Goat, holding still so he wouldn't scratch the paint until Vecchio had reduced him to ragged, rough pleas. His own reflection in the mirror-like shine, twisted and desperate, and the drips of sweat that fell dotting it like rain.
Today, it was Vecchio on his knees, blindfolded by his own tie, hands cuffed behind his back and shoulders forced straight. Ray pulled the trailing edges; forced his head back, bared his throat, felt his own dick jerk hard at the hitched breath; smelled the cologne and sweat and defiance and fear.
"Taking the scenic route, Stanley?" Vecchio asked, voice strained and distorted, caught on the end of a breathless laugh. "'Cause I obviously got all day."
Ray gave a quick little jerk on the ends of the tie, even as he pressed a little closer to Vecchio's back, looking down over Vecchio's shoulder as his own hand slid nice and slow over chest hair, down, soft and gentle.
"I mean, do I look like I need a ton of foreplay here?" But the tone was more ragged yet, and Ray could feel every shift, breath, pulse-beat in the space between them where he was reaching. He left a quick, sharp mark on that stretched neck, earning a gasp, then nuzzled across it.
"Shhh..." he said, and between the rough and the soft, he felt Vecchio tremble.