As soon as they’re alone Chris grabs him by the front of his jacket, his fingers curling in the familiar leather.
“Didn’t I tell you how goddamn distracting this thing is?”
Tom doesn’t even try to hide his smug smile.
“You may have mentioned it once or twice.”
And he doesn’t resist when Chris presses him, just lets himself be steered backwards until he hits the wall. The jacket even smells amazing, crisp and masculine. Chris finds himself unconsciously rubbing his fingers against the baby soft leather in his grip.
“You gotta stop wearing it,” he rumbles. “It’s driving me fucking crazy.”
“I’m going to wear it to every single interview, press conference, and photo shoot I can manage.” The tip of Tom’s clever pink tongue shows between his teeth. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Whyyyy,” Chris groans, even though he loves every second of it.
“Because,” Tom smirks. “I like to make you squirm.”
Right on cue he catches Chris staring at his mouth, and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and teases it out again, so confident in his own ability to make Chris go insane that Chris can’t help but give in and do exactly what he wants. He crushes his mouth over Tom’s in the next instant, reveling in the muffled hum of pleasure, in the way Tom kisses back with equal ferocity. They duel, heated and breathless, Tom’s hands finding their way up to tangle in Chris’s hair and drag him closer.
But then Chris pushes his hands away.
“No,” he huffs. “I told you not to wear that stupid jacket and you went ahead and did it.”
“I did,” Tom brags, shameless.
He jumps when Chris suddenly strips his jacket from his shoulders and yanks it halfway down his arms, stopping just above the elbow and pulling it tight enough behind him that his limbs are unexpectedly, entirely trapped. Then he pushes him back into the wall so that his own weight binds him there. Tom’s eyes are wide and startled. Chris gives him an echo of his own smug smile.
“Now I’m gonna make you squirm.”
He holds one forearm braced against Tom’s chest to keep him pinned. With the other he reaches up and hooks a finger into the collar of his t-shirt, tugging it down to expose the point where his neck meets his shoulder, where he proceeds to press his open mouth. He sucks lightly and Tom shivers underneath him.
“Ah,” he gasps, “Oohoo, harder, darling, harder.”
Chris sucks hard enough to bruise, eliciting a deep groan that fractures into a disappointed whine when he suddenly pulls away.
“Oh, come on,” Tom starts to protest.
But Chris silences him by covering his mouth with own, and then with a lazy invitation from his tongue he coaxes him into a deep, languid kiss, running his fingers again and again through his curly hair because he knows it drives him wild. After plenty of this generous attention, he looks down to gauge his progress--- not only does Tom have an erection tenting the front of his jeans, but down on the floor Chris can see that his feet have turned inwards, the toes inside his tennis shoes curling in delight.
So of course he pulls away again.
“Ohhhhh,” Tom wails, struggling against the leather ensnaring his arms. “You are so nasty! Don’t be so nasty!”
“Ah ha, see?” Chris gloats, triumphant. “Not so fun now, is it? Not when you’re the one doing the squirming!”
Tom sees an opportunity to escape and takes it.
“All right, all right,” he says hastily. “You’ve made your point. Lesson learned. I’ll never wear this jacket again.”
Chris narrows his eyes.
“No,” he growls. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Tom looks confused, so Chris leans in to give him an explanation. At the same time he drops his free hand between Tom’s legs and gropes him through his jeans, making Tom surge forward to meet him, burying his face in Chris’s shoulder with a muffled cry. Chris licks the pale shell of his ear before he whispers into it.
“I want you to wear this jacket every fucking day.” He grinds his palm against Tom’s hard-on. “‘Cause you look so goddamn sexy in it.”
“Ahhhh,” Tom moans, his hips thrusting shallowly against Chris’s hand. “You sure--- you sure it won’t be too--- mmm--- distracting?”
Chris runs his tongue up the side of his slender neck. “I think I can handle it.”
He grunts in surprise when he’s suddenly jerked forward against his will. He looks down again and sees that Tom has worked his hands free, just enough to reach out and hook his long, cunning fingers under Chris’s belt and yank him closer. He pulls Chris flush against him, giving a breathy chuckle of satisfaction when he feels Chris’s erection bump against his own.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he purrs.
He rolls his hips as he curls his fingers, and the resulting friction makes them both gasp. So they do it again. And again. They rock against each other, and even through two pairs of jeans Tom feels so hot and hard that Chris can hardly stand it, and he pants in his ear, “you’re so sexy, you son of a bitch, you are so fucking sexy,” while Tom writhes and whimpers and begs, “don’t stop, please don’t stop this time.”
Chris doesn’t want to stop anymore. Not now. Now he wants to make Tom come in his pants, right here, right up against the wall and all tangled up in that stupid goddamn jacket that he wears just because he knows Chris thinks it’s sexy. So he keeps going, rough, relentless, until Tom is throwing his head back and whining please please please please. Then Chris reaches up to thread his fingers through his hair, gathering a fistful in preparation.
“Gonna make you come, baby,” he promises, grinding him into the wall.
“God, yes,” Tom’s shoulders spasm helplessly with the desire to wrap his arms around him. “Closer, Chris, come closer.”
Chris presses his full weight against him, chest to chest so that Tom can shower his neck with licks and kisses, only pausing every few seconds so he can unleash a pornographic moan right into Chris’s ear. Tom is endearingly shameless in his enthusiasm for just about everything--- but this is when Chris likes it the most.
“Fuck,” Tom gasps. “I’m--- I think I’m--- hnh---”
Then Chris yanks on his hair and Tom comes so hard that he has to lunge forward and bite down on Chris’s shoulder to stifle his howl. His long, lean body arches and trembles--- then he pumps his hips, fast, one-two-three quick jerks--- and Chris comes, too. Tom’s fingers in his belt keep them locked together as they ride it out, shuddering through the aftershocks until they’re both completely spent, laughing breathlessly into the crooks of each other’s necks.
Tom nuzzles him happily.
“I’ll have to wear this jacket more often.”
Chris pulls away just enough to look at his face, flushed and beaming. What a beauty. He kisses him, and he can feel Tom’s mouth still smiling under his own.
When he’s finally released from the wall, Tom shrugs his jacket back up onto his shoulders--- and immediately winces. Chris cringes apologetically as he gives his cramped arms an experimental flex.
“Sorry about that, mate.”
Tom winks at him. “Well worth the wound.” He gives his collar a crisp snap. “And I’m happy to report that the real object of your affection remains undamaged.” His smile becomes quizzical. “Shall I wear it tomorrow, then?”
Chris considers it, then says, “Wear it when you think of me.”
Tom frowns. “I don’t think I can do that.”
Chris frowns, too. “Why not?”
“Well,” Tom lowers his eyes, then raises them slyly. “You wouldn’t want me to wear it in the shower, would you?”
Chris grins. “Shut up.”
“And just think how wrinkled it would be if I wore it in bed.”
“Okay, fine,” Chris throws up his hands. “Then just wear it the next time you’re gonna see me.”
Tom licks his lips.
“Shall I wear it tonight, then?”
Chris checks him out from head to toe.
Goddamn he looks good in leather.
“You know what,” he says. “I think you should.”