18. George #3
Lance rolls his hips harder now, ass flexing, abs contracting tight with every filthy thrust as he dances straight for me. His eyes never leave mine.
“Hands,” Adrian says. “Put them somewhere you want them to be.”
Lance raises his hands toward me. The space between us crackles. He holds there for a while, palms open, letting me feel the intention. Adrian guides him the last inch forward.
Lance’s hands land flat on my chest, hot through my shirt. His fingers grab hard into the fabric like he’s barely stopping himself from ripping it off me.
Adrian stays pressed tight behind Lance. He leans in and whispers something against Lance’s ear that I can’t hear. Lance’s lips part, breath hitching.
Lance lifts his right foot and plants it on the couch between my spread thighs. His bare toes then drag deliberately over the hard length of my cock, pressing and rubbing slow, teasing circles.
Holy fuck. The friction feels so fucking good I almost groan out loud.
He sets his foot to the outside of my thigh, spreading his own stance wider so his hips open right in front of my face. His jeans hang obscenely low around his hips.
Adrian’s voice cuts through, smooth and easy-going. “George, you’re not allowed to touch. You know the rule—no touching the dancer unless he says so.”
I narrow my eyes at him. My jaw tightens. Both hands fist hard at my sides. Every instinct wants to pull Lance the rest of the way in, but I stay rooted in place. That rule feels extremely inconvenient right now.
Lance threads his fingers into the back of my hair, gripping tight. He then yanks my face forward until my mouth is pressed against his crotch.
The sudden move knocks the air out of me. My hands shoot up instinctively to the sides, fighting the overwhelming urge to grip his ass and hold him there.
He rolls his hips in a deep, filthy wave, grinding his thickening cock right against my face through the thin black fabric.
The metal zipper teeth bite into my cheek, but I don’t pull away.
I breathe him in—warm skin, clean sweat, pure Lance.
His dick grows harder with every slow grind, heavy and hot against my lips.
A low, broken moan escapes Lance’s throat.
I’m fucking dying.
“Stand up,” Adrian orders me.
I reluctantly stand, already missing the heat between Lance’s thighs.
Adrian positions Lance between us. Me in front, and him behind.
His hands stay on Lance’s hips, rocking him forward in that same slow rhythm.
Lance tilts his head back against Adrian’s shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted like he’s lost in the feeling of being crushed between us.
His hand rests on my shoulder. His hot breath fans across my neck.
That bare throat is right there. I want to sink my teeth into it.
“Can I fucking touch him now?” I rasp, voice thick with greed.
I’m expecting Adrian to answer, but Lance breathes out the smallest, neediest sound I’ve ever heard. “Please.”
He looks up at me, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. The tip of his tongue is almost sliding out. I put my hands on Lance’s lower back, the heat of his bare skin burning against my palms. I grip him tight and pull him closer as he keeps rolling his hips in that striptease grind against me.
Adrian’s hands slide up to Lance’s abs and chest, making room for mine.
I let them roam his sides, stomach, the firm swell of his ass where I can still feel Adrian pressed tight behind him.
Lance’s fingers dig harder into my chest. His exhale comes out rough and shaky against my mouth.
His eyes never leave mine, dark and starving.
The room is silent except for the heavy bass and our breathing.
Lance isn’t performing anymore.
Neither am I.
Adrian eventually steps back, leaving Lance dancing for me alone.
I stay standing as Lance turns around. He presses his back to my chest, ass grinding against my crotch, and guides my hand over his body.
His other hand reaches back to grip my nape, pulling me tighter while he sways to the beat.
He then slides my fingers inside the waistband of his boxer briefs, letting me feel his smooth skin right above his cock, but he doesn’t let me touch it or go down any further.
He holds my hand there for a few torturous seconds, then pulls it back out.
I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.
He drops into a deep crouch in front of me.
His back muscles shift and flex under the low light as he pushes his ass back firmly against me, his hands touching the floor.
The position is pure, raw fucking. I press forward instinctively, my erection sliding hard along the seam of his jeans.
He nearly topples but I catch his hips in time, fingers digging in tight to steady him.
Lance glances back at me over his shoulder, eyes blazing with pure filth. He holds the pose for a few more beats, then slowly rises and turns to face me again.
When the songs finally ends, he takes one step back. We stand there facing each other, breathing hard, unable to look away.
That’s when the front door opens.