18. George #2
I nod once.
Lance clears his throat, a little too quickly. “Sure. No problem. Record away.”
I catch the shift in Lance, perking up a little bit, his focus sharpening. The camera doesn’t throw him. If anything, it pulls him in.
Adrian reaches for the sound system by the TV unit, taps a few buttons on the receiver, then syncs his phone through the setup. The floor speakers come alive with ‘Do I Wanna Know?’ by Arctic Monkeys, bass low, riff slow, the room changing with it.
Lance finally pushes up from the couch and walks straight into the open space in front of me. He plants his feet in the middle of the room, squared up, legs shoulder-width apart. I’m just staring up at him.
I can’t believe he’s actually doing this, but this is fucking Lance. Once he decides he’s in, he’ll follow through on anything. No matter how stupid it is, or how fucking dangerous this one feels right now.
“Lance?” I raise an eyebrow.
He smirks down at me. “Relax, G. This is just for fun.”
Fun. I can do fun.
I lean back deeper into the couch, spread my thighs wider, and let a slow, dirty grin creep across my face.
“Sure,” I say. I hold his stare and drag my eyes down his body. I nod toward his crotch. “Show me what you’ve got. Grind it like you mean it.”
Lance’s smirk flickers for half a second, something raw flashing in his eyes before the cocky mask slams back into place. Behind him, Adrian lets out a low, surprised laugh.
“Goddamn, George,” Adrian says, grinning wide. “That was straight-up criminal.” He claps Lance on the shoulder. “You lucky bastard. Your audience just raised the stakes hard.”
Lance’s eyes darken as he stares down at me, the challenge now burning between us. “You sure you can handle it, Big Guy?”
I take a slow sip of my beer, never breaking eye contact, and lick my bottom lip.
“Try me.”
Adrian steps behind Lance. “First thing.” His hands slide onto Lance’s hips, fingers spread over the thin fabric of his shirt. “You’re braced like you’re expecting a hit. Drop your weight. Sink into it.”
“I’m doing it,” Lance mutters, voice already rougher.
“You’re standing like you’re about to throw a punch.” Adrian presses in closer, palms firm on Lance’s hip bones, guiding him down and back. “Let it sink. Looser. Yeah…like that.”
Lance tries again. His hips roll this time, slow and liquid, the motion traveling up his spine. The open collar of his button-down gapes slightly, fabric pulling across his chest. Adrian’s hands stay on him, one sliding to the small of his back, the other gripping his hip to control the rhythm.
“Stop thinking,” Adrian murmurs, lips close to Lance’s ear. “It should look like it costs you nothing…even when it takes everything.”
Lance exhales sharply. His next roll comes smoother, deeper, ass pushing back into Adrian’s body before rolling forward again in one filthy, controlled wave.
Fuck.
“Better,” Adrian says. “Now slower. You’re not selling speed. You’re selling attention. Make the person watching feel like he’s the only thing in the room.”
Adrian steps in front of Lance and demonstrates first. He drops into a slight squat, thighs flexing, then rises smoothly while dragging one hand down his own chest and over his stomach.
His hips do a sharp pop to the left, then right, before he adds a quick half-turn that leaves his ass facing Lance for a beat.
Lance mirrors it right away, catching on fast. His shoulders drop, abs tightening under his shirt as he nails the pop on the second try.
I sit on the couch, beer forgotten in my hand, watching my best friend learn how to move like that. Every slow grind of his hips sends heat crawling down my spine.
Adrian circles back behind Lance, voice dropping low against his ear. “Eye contact is what locks them in. The movement gets their attention. Find him. Don’t fucking break it.”
Lance turns his head. His gaze crashes into mine.
I don’t move or breathe.
“Your eyes keep it,” Adrian says softly. “You’re doing this for one person. He feels it. You feel it. Don’t look away.”
Lance doesn’t look away. His hips keep that hypnotic roll while he stares straight at me, pupils already blown. This isn’t for the room anymore. It’s for me.
Adrian reaches around and starts slowly unbuttoning Lance’s shirt, one at a time. Lance lets him, eyes never leaving mine. The fabric parts, revealing smooth skin and the hard lines of his abs. Adrian pushes the shirt off Lance’s shoulders and lets it drop to the floor.
Then Lance turns slightly, reaches back, and tugs Adrian’s shirt up and off in one smooth motion.
Adrian chuckles softly, surprised, lifting his arms to help.
Now they stand right in front of me, both shirtless.
Lance’s chest rises and falls with each breath, smooth skin stretched over muscle, nipples tight.
Adrian presses in close behind Lance again, fingers touching Lance’s chest down to his abs, guiding the rhythm.
Lance leans back into him just enough to use Adrian as an anchor while his own hips roll forward in a deep, filthy wave.
They move together in perfect sync, a slow, seductive dance aimed entirely at me.
Both of them watch me now. Lance’s stare is raw and hungry.
Adrian’s is dark and knowing, an open invitation.
Adrian reaches around and pops the top button of Lance’s jeans, then slowly drags the zipper down. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels the denim down over Lance’s narrow hips, low enough to reveal the black boxer briefs and the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath it.
My fingers dig into the edge of the couch until the fabric creaks under my grip, every muscle locked down so I don’t fucking haul Lance forward and ruin the performance.
The need to grab him, pin him against me, and take what those rolling hips are offering rides me hard, feral and barely held back.
Adrian stays pressed close behind him, and pushes him forward.