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Contusion

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Jay spits. Bob meets Jay’s eyes in the mirror. He runs one hand up the taller man's head and runs his fingers slowly through the mess of blond hair to get a grip. He glides his other hand up to discard the black beanie on his head, back down the bumps in his spine, settling over the curve of his hip.

Bob digs into the soft skin with his fingertips, hard enough that it will purple by morning, and hears Jay’s intake of air; watches fascinated as Jay falls back against him, eyes dark with lust, neck arched. Jay like this, passive and sensual, makes Bob wonder how long it would last before he started talking again.

“Jesus, lunchbox,” Apparently not long. Jay’s voice is soft and raw, and Bob’s cock jerks at the sight in front of him, equal parts stunned and turned on, captured by a part of Jay he’s never seen before. Bob pulls at Jay’s hair until he can see the reddish mark he made in the hallway.

He moves his hand from Jay’s hip up to the mark and presses his thumb into it. Jay squirms against him and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.