Robert bites his lip; the tender red flesh will be purple with bruises later, swollen and bloody, but he bites himself to keep from biting Eames. Eames, whose lips are thick and fat and swollen already, Eames, whose lips are the lips of a born cocksucker. Eames, who’s old-money-public-school-Eaton-College-yes-please-sir on his knees and Robert reaches forward with one Italian-leather-clad foot and shoves him down. He uses just the tip, just the fine-wrought wingtip, as if using the sole would dirty his shoes, and he says, “Open your mouth.” And Eames does.

And God, but each tooth is gleaming in the dim light of his father’s office, gleaming like ivory and just as rare. Eames traces the tip of his tongue around them, and Robert can’t even bring himself to care that they’re crooked because he wants that mouth around his cock ten minutes ago. His fingers tremble slightly on the zip of his fly and they both pretend not to notice.

“Are you good,” Robert stumbles slightly, only slightly, eagerness and nervousness and shyness and arousal fighting for control at the root of his tongue, “Are you good at this? At sucking cock?”

Eames nods.

“Tell me,” Robert continues, breath coming sharp through his nose. “Tell me.”

“Oh, I’m good. I’m so good, baby,” Eames says in a voice that’s half growl and low. “I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

“You look good,” Robert says, but it’s not enough, not confident enough. He clears his throat. “You look like you know what you’re doing. You look like you’ve sucked a lot of cock. You look like you like it.”

Eames purrs then, rubbing his face catlike against the erection in Robert’s three thousand dollar suit before dragging the flat of his tongue up the length of the line of it. “Yes,” he hisses. “I’ve sucked so many cocks before, but none of them were you.”

And the image of it hits Robert in the solar plexus, hits him so hard he sees stars and he imagines Eames in a schoolboy’s kit, blazer rucked and tie loose and hanging over a rumpled cotton shirt. He sees this boy on his knees before a friend, an upperclassman—a teacher, he thinks, and moans—and he wants to know. Wants to taste the first cock those lips have sucked. “Who was he?” Robert asks, and he’s surprised how jealous he sounds.

“No one,” Eames tells him, and his thick fingers are squirming their way into his trousers through the opened fly. Robert tugs impatiently at his belt and it comes free as Eames lifts him carefully, half-hard, through his boxers. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Eames whispers reverently.

“Just get on with it,” Robert tells him. He reaches down and closes his eyes, wraps his hand around the width of it. Eames’s tongue is thick-wet on it and Robert’s breath catches in his chest for a moment. He feels like he’s drowning for a minute until he opens his eyes to the rapturous look on Eames’s upturned face and knows it for sure. Robert makes a sound like crying and shoves home, pushing past Eames’s slack lips until they’re resting in his pubic hair and Eames looks thoroughly satisfied.

“Sweet,” Robert starts, but he forgets which deity he’s trying to invoke when Eames closes his lips around the base of his cock and sucks. He settles for a long moan instead, and he can feel Eames’s laugh climbing through his own skin. It’s too much, too fast, too good, and Robert slides his fingers along the side of Eames’s face until they’re buried in his hair and then he twists them, pulling him gaping, wet-mouthed, back. “Get on your knees,” Robert commands, and his voice is as hoarse as if he were the one sucking cock.

“Aren’t I already?” Eames asks. He’s smirking until Robert pulls his hair sharply, exposing the line of his throat to Robert’s predatory gaze.

“No. You’re not.” And as Eames obediently rolls to his hands and knees, Robert reaches beneath Eames to undo his belt and fly, pausing to grope him through his cotton pants before they, too, fall to puddle at Eames’s knees. “Do you think you made it wet enough?” Robert asks. It’s mostly rhetorical. Eames answers anyway:

“There’s only one way to find out.”