Tan Lines

"I love this."

Brian feels a light trail of fingertips brushing his hip and turns his head to grin at Justin.

"What, my ass? Tell us something we don't know, Sunshine." He wiggles a little for Justin's benefit, just to emphasize his point.

Justin's palm lands soundly on his left check and Brian barks a laugh.

"No, asshole," Justin smirks, tracing the fresh, red outline of his handprint. "This."

The fingers find his hip again and then slide down to tickle the tops of his thighs.

Brian looks over his shoulder, trying to see what fascinates Justin so fixedly.

"Cellulite?" His question is a joke but there's a little shadow of doubt that creeps in, which Justin doesn't miss.

"No, you drama queen, not cellulite." Justin rolls his eyes and Brian thinks with regret that there'll come a time in Justin's life when he outgrows that childish gesture. Brian knows he'll miss it when it's gone but for now he shows Justin his tongue in a childish gesture of his own.

"Then, what?" Brian shifts closer to Justin, losing almost all interest in the conversation the nearer he gets to Justin's naked body.

"Your tan lines." Justin's fingers are still tracking intent patterns on Brian's flesh, the tip of his tongue poking out between his cotton candy lips. Brian is too entranced by the glimpses of Justin's tongue to answer.

"They make your ass look so creamy white." Justin continues. His expression is glazing now, and his fingers find more purpose in their stroking. Brian can almost see the clockworks ticking behind Justin's eyes.

"Yeah?" Brian breathes, his eyebrow lifting.

"Yeah," Justin's voice has gone husky, and Brian's dick, pressed into the bed beneath him, responds to it. "It makes me want to fuck you silly."

Justin's head dips suddenly and his lips find the demarcation of pale skin and brown skin above the modest swell of Brian's right cheek. Brian bites back a soft moan, unwilling to let Justin in on his little secret- that the idea of Justin wanting to fuck him because of his tan lines will forever in the future be reason enough to make sure he always wears briefs to the tanning booth.

Justin's tongue slips wetly, slowly across Brian's lower back and Brian pushes his forehead into the pillow, clamping down hard on the urge to squirm. He vaguely curses the stoic image he's carved out for himself before getting lost in the feel of Justin's lips gliding lower to cover the faint lines above Brian's thighs.

If Brian pushes his hips up towards Justin's face, it's not an open invitation. It doesn't mean whatever Justin hopes it means, and whatever Brian is so afraid of. It doesn't mean Brian wants to feel filled and completed by Justin, although he does. It doesn't mean "fuck me". Of course it doesn't.

But that's what it leads to, anyway.

The End.