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Rozamiento

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“You look…” Janos paused, searching for the right word. “tense.” Azazel cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your muscles.” His accent tripped across the word, tongue defiantly trying to say músculos.

Azazel hummed in agreement. “It happens in this job. You should know.” His tail flicked languidly in the air as he turned back to his work. “We die if I make an error. Is stressful.”

“More reason to take rests, I think.” Janos stepped forward coyly. Azazel scoffed.

“We do not do your siestas here.” It was Janos’s turn for indignation.

“I’m not talking about la siesta.” Briefly, and against his will, Azazel noticed how much more musical the word sounded rolling off a Spanish tongue. He quelled the thought, telling himself to focus on his work until Janos decided to stop being annoying and leave. “You know,” he said lazily, “I give an incredible massage.” Azazel froze. If he didn’t know any better, he would think Janos was coming on to him. And that it was working. He laughed dryly.

“I do not think so.”

“What? That I am good with my hands? I can prove it.” Azazel squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling raggedly. He was definitely being propositioned.

“I do not think I want a massage from you.”

“I think you do.” Janos’ hands had migrated to his shoulders. Azazel shrugged them off.

“Why you’re doing this?” he snapped, looking determinedly at his work. His English was faltering from the stress and the rather sudden flare of arousal, and it embarrassed him. He would like to think that he spoke English better than Janos, but they suddenly seemed on the same level.

“I do this for you. Maybe a little for me.” He was smiling wickedly. “Let me show you. I can see you want to,” he purred, looking pointedly at the unseemly bulge in Azazel’s pants. Humiliated, Azazel folded his arms across his lap and avoided Janos’s stare.

“Go away.”

No.” He had drawn his head down to Azazel’s level, mouth a hairsbreadth from his ear. Azazel could feel his breath, hot and damp on his skin. He jerked away from the sensation. Janos, not one to take no for an answer, responded in turn by repositioning his hands on Azazel’s shoulders. “Relaja,” he hummed, and his hands began to move.

It was better than Azazel was comfortable with admitting. Maybe he was tense, and maybe that validated stopping his work to receive a very sensual massage from his coworker. Then again, maybe not.

“You should not do this,” he growled, but did not pull back. Janos shrugged, making a noncommittal noise from where he stood behind Azazel’s back.

“No me importa.”

“Anyone can walk in here,” he urged, still not moving away from the hands currently pressing into the hollows of his shoulder blades.

“But they won’t. Shaw and Emma are on the deck, and the day is too beautiful to want to go inside.” He meant to disagree, to get Janos’ hands off him, but he found himself agreeing, and leaning farther into the touch. “Oh, you like?” Janos pushed more firmly into the spot, making small circles with his fingers.

“Yes,” Azazel said, his voice far too much like a groan.

“You see? What I tell you? I’m good.” Azazel nodded loosely. “But I can make it better if you like.”

“Yes. I like.” As soon as he said it, such an eager parroting of Janos’ broken English, Azazel could feel his face heating in embarrassment. He was being reduced to something weak, almost begging. He clamped his mouth closed in shame. Janos didn’t seem to notice, crossing to stand in front of Azazel, who couldn’t keep himself from noticing how perfectly the other man’s suit fit him. He knelt down on the gleaming white floor, his smile positively devilish.

“Abrirlos,” he insisted, pushing Azazel’s knees apart. Azazel felt his breath catch in his throat.

“You’re not…” his voice faded at the first brush of contact with Janos’ fingers, which skated lightly across the tight stretched fabric of his pants.

“Yes I am.” Unable to think of any coherent arguments, Azazel leaned back in his chair with a great sigh. He was officially past the point of no return when it came to convincing himself that he didn’t want this. If nothing else, his tail had betrayed him utterly, moving forward to nudge pleadingly at Janos’ shoulder. He registered with hazy understanding that Janos was laughing quietly to himself at the insistent prodding of his tail’s spade.

“Quiet. Do not laugh at me.” He had hoped that his voice would come out more forcefully. Janos just smiled and leaned closer to his arousal. Azazel watched him intently, embarrassment forgotten. He couldn’t remember ever seeing something so beautiful as the tan hands currently making quick work of his buttons and fly. As he was considering that fact, he was confronted with an infinitely more gorgeous sight: those same caramel colored hands wrapping themselves around the deep red of his cock. He felt like he should say something, like he should tell Janos that this was inappropriate, that he wasn’t gay (right?), that he didn’t want this. All that came out was a ragged “ah”. Janos’s grin spread wider and he jerked his hand roughly, watching with amusement as Azazel’s fingernails dug into the arms of his chair.

“You like this? You are such dark red here,” he cooed, flicking his tongue out flirtatiously and making glorious, wet contact with the throbbing member in his hands. Azazel wanted him to stop talking. His accent turned each sharply accented vowel and deep, heavy R into pornography, and he wanted to last longer than a few minutes. After all the humiliation he had suffered at Janos’ hands in the past ten minutes, the last thing he wanted was to finish prematurely like a teenager.

"пожалуйста,” he groaned, threading his fingers through Janos’ soft, dark hair.

“Pah-jahl-stuh?” he teased, drawing back a bit. “I barely speak English; do not try my Russian.”

“Please,” he repeated, forcing the foreign tongue through stumbling, need-drunk lips.

“Please what?”

“You know what,” Azazel growled through gritted teeth. “Please.” He no longer cared that he had been reduced to begging. What was to come would probably be worth the strike against his honor. Janos shrugged, an affectation of cluelessness. “Mouth,” Azazel commanded desperately, pushing against the back of Janos’ head.

“Oh, of course,” he smiled, lowering his head. Azazel was instantly certain that it was worth the begging. Janos was all wet heat and heavy drags of the tongue, his teeth grazing carefully over his skin, hard enough to feel but light enough not to hurt. He groaned as his tail wrapped tightly around the arm of the chair, a perfect reflection of the tension coiling in the pit of his abdomen.

“This isn’t doing much to relax me,” he groaned harshly. Janos withdrew his mouth, making Azazel hiss in displeasure at the loss of sensation.

“It will,” he promised lightly, before returning his mouth to its previous occupation. His hair was falling around his face, blocking Azazel’s view. He reached out a hand and gingerly tucked the errant strands behind Janos’ ear. He realized after the fact how overly tender the gesture seemed, and thrust forcefully into Janos’s mouth to offset any thoughts he had been having about affection.

Much to his chagrin, Azazel didn’t last long. Janos had figured out, somewhere along the line, exactly how to combine sucking and biting in a way that would make him buck his hips greedily in the chair, and he had used that technique mercilessly. When he finally found release, his hands scrambled wildly for purchase on the chair, in Janos’s hair, anywhere they could scratch and grip and betray exactly how powerless he was under the ministrations of an expert tongue.

In the aftershocks of his orgasm, Azazel let himself watch contentedly as Janos wiped the evidence of their tryst from his mouth.
“Relaxed now?” he grinned. Azazel nodded mutely. “Is like I said,” he remarked blithely, tongue darting out to swipe across his lips. “I’m very good at this.” Azazel, loose limbed and breathing heavily, couldn’t help but agree.