“Oh God.”
“Relax,” murmured da Silva. “I won’t bite.” And with that, Curtis was engulfed in warm, wet sensation.
His eyes sprang open, and he saw himself in that conveniently positioned mirror, face flushed, leaning back with his legs spread, and the dark man kneeling between his thighs, head bowed.
Someone was behind that mirror, watching.
“I can’t,” he hissed.
Da Silva made a noise of exasperation. “I’m doing the hard part. Just shut your eyes.”
Curtis couldn’t have shut his eyes on a bet. He was looking at the mirror, and he should have been thinking of what was happening on the other side of the wall, but he was transfixed by the contrast between the slender lines of da Silva’s smooth olive-skinned back, and his own much paler chest, thickly furred with dark blond hair over the broad, powerful pectorals. And da Silva’s mouth was on his stiff length, working hard, tongue dipping and curling and licking, and it was becoming impossible to think of anything else but that.
This was not the slobbery fumbling he remembered from school, or the awkward manoeuvring at college. Da Silva’s cheeks, lightly scratchy with stubble, rasped against his thighs. His clever tongue ran over the head of Curtis’s cock, pushing and nudging, then his mouth closed over him completely, and his lips slid down along the rigid length, taking him deep in his throat, all the way down.
Curtis made an animal noise. It was obscene, and astonishing, and he had no idea how da Silva wasn’t choking. He leaned back, staring down at the dark head and—he had to make it look convincing, da Silva had said—reached for his hair, tentative at first, then running his hands through the brilliantined sleekness, feeling the movement of the man’s head as his cheeks and throat worked. Da Silva rubbed the side of his face like a cat against the leather of Curtis’s glove. His throat vibrated with a soft purr that hummed against Curtis’s flesh and sang through his blood. Curtis bit his lip.
Make it convincing. His hips were moving now, almost without his volition, pushing himself into da Silva’s clever, pretty, filthy mouth. Da Silva’s fingers were running over his flanks, and his mouth worked impossibly, clenching and sucking, up and down, and Curtis forgot the watchers, and Lafayette, and everything else. He felt nothing but the hot mouth on him, saw nothing but the mirrored form of a dark angel between his legs. He drove harder, gripping the man’s hair to keep him close, and da Silva moaned with what sounded like pleasure, fingers digging into his thighs to pull him on, taking the thrusts without recoiling. God, he actually liked it, he liked having Curtis’s big, engorged prick in his mouth…
Curtis felt his balls tighten painfully, far too soon, and dimly remembered his manners. “Going to come,” he warned hoarsely.
Da Silva dragged his lips upwards, away, and Curtis had a second to regret his own chivalry before the other man plunged down again, taking his whole length in a single smooth movement, sending waves of sensation crashing across his skin.
“Christ, da Silva, stop, I’ll come in your mouth!”
Da Silva grunted, sucking even harder, and did that thing with his throat again, muscles rippling and clutching, and Curtis came with a stifled shout, gripping da Silva’s head hard, not caring if he choked him, hips jerking frantically as he spent in jet after fierce jet.
He released his grip on da Silva’s hair, feeling the oil on the bare skin of his left hand, and flopped back, stunned. At his crotch, he heard the kneeling man swallow.
Curtis stared up at the ceiling.
Da Silva stood and moved to pour himself a glass of water from the nightstand, sloshing it around his mouth.
The bed creaked as da Silva came and sat on it, not touching. “All right?”
Curtis had no idea if he was all right. He looked over at da Silva. His dark hair was tousled and tangled, falling forward, so that he no longer looked sleek and self-possessed, but rougher, more real, loosened by intimacy. His lips were swollen with pressure, or arousal. The silver ring glinted against a nipple that was tight and erect.
Did he want Curtis to reciprocate?
“You look like you’re about to have a heart attack,” da Silva remarked. “I’m not sure whether I should find that flattering or the opposite.”
Their situation crashed down on Curtis then, driving out the madness of the last few minutes. “Dear God,” he hissed. “Don’t you understand—they’ll have bloody photographed that!” He sat up as he spoke, grabbing for his dressing gown, suddenly desperate to cover himself.
“No, will they?” Da Silva rolled his eyes. “That was the point.”