Chapter Text
Dennis flipped the lock of the bathroom stall and let out a long, shaky breath, glancing around desperately. There were no windows in the dim, lavish bathroom, and the dark marble and polished wood doors were making him feel even more trapped. He ducked down to double-check no one else was in the stalls or at the urinals, then fumbled in his pocket. For a moment he couldn’t find his phone and he panicked, frantically ripping open the uncomfortable, too-tight suit jacket he wore to pat down every pocket in the vest, jacket, and slacks he had on. It was a rented three-piece he’d found a couple hours before this event, scratchy in all the wrong places and a little too snug in the shoulders and arms. He always assumed he was smaller than he was, and the salesman had, too, glancing over him before handing over the black suit. But farmer’s genetics and the hard work he’d grown accustomed to doing before dawn combined to give him broad shoulders and thick biceps that made the jacket more than a little uncomfortable.
He tugged the knot of his tie loose, swallowing dryly, thumbing open the first few buttons of his white button-down. He finally found his phone tucked in the jacket’s breast pocket, pulling it out and unlocking it before opening his contacts. He stared at the list for a long moment, his mind running blank.
Who was he planning to call? He hadn’t gotten that far in his mad dash to the bathroom. Santos, maybe. Would she come? Probably. Yes. Definitely. Maybe. Did he want her to come? No. Definitely not. God, that would be humiliating. Then who?
He bit his lip, rubbing the back of his wrist against his mouth. A familiar face popped into his mind, the one that had popped into his head back at that table when panic and discomfort overtook him and he’d hurriedly excused himself to flee to the restroom. The steady voice, the glittering eyes that watched him at work, placing a hand on his neck and shoulders to guide him to the right spot, dragging him close and redirecting his nervous energy to where it needed to go.
This was unprofessional, embarrassing, and probably the stupidest thing he’d ever done.
He hit the call button and pressed the phone tightly to his ear, covering his eyes with his free hand. Don’t pick up. Please, don’t pick up. Go to voicemail. Give me a reason to slink back out and not do this. Oh, my god, what am I doing? Why am I doing this? Hang up, hang up –
The line clicked before he could rip the phone away and the low, rumbling voice of Dr Robby answered. “Hello?”
Dennis dropped his hand from his face, shifting to picking at his suit jacket, then turning, pacing back and forth in the small stall, rubbing his neck, unable to hold still. “Oh, uh – uh, it’s – Dennis.”
A long pause. “I have caller ID, Whitaker.” There was the sound of some rustling, shifting, and Whitaker realized with a start that Robby might be in bed. It was nine-thirty at night, and here he was calling him like a pathetic – “What do you need?” Robby asked with a sigh.
“Um,” Dennis stalled, leaning against the wall of the bathroom. “Look, about that thing you said last night. . .”
Robby made a noise that landed somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Oh, man, did you really go through with the date?”
Dennis’s cheeks flushed. He pressed his lips together, closing his eyes. “It’s for charity.”
Another heavy pause. He could practically see the look of disapproval and I-told-you-so that Robby no doubt was wearing. “They auctioned off the cute, young med student to the highest bidder for a candlelit dinner.” He cleared his throat. “Sounds less like charity and more like, uh, prostitution. Or something like that.” Another shifting sound, then the clink of ice against glass. “Sorry. You’ve caught me post nightcap. Forget I said that.”
Dennis opened his eyes, staring at his pale reflection in the metal door of the stall.
Robby had said something to that effect the previous night when they were on shift together.
He’d asked if Dennis had weekend plans, to which he’d replied that the outreach program he’d signed up for had a charity event the previous week. Donors had bidded on a variety of items, one of them being dinner at a five-star restaurant with one of the program’s volunteers. It was to learn more about the outreach work they were doing, to connect donors with the people that were the boots on the ground, and to also raise money for the cause.
He’d explained all this with a growing flush rising up his neck as Dr Robby had simply stared at him, at first just pausing, then removing his glasses, then folding his arms and raising his eyebrows with increasing amusement and disapproval.
“So you auctioned yourself off for a date,” Robby had said slowly, once Dennis’s rambled explanation had teetered to a precipice.
Dennis shook his head. “No, it’s – it’s a dinner, to explain about the program. To share the work we’re doing.”
“Uh-huh.” Robby stressed that second syllable, drawing it out as he ran his tongue over his teeth. He tipped his head. “How much did they sell you for?”
Dennis slammed his locker shut, turning away. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Oh-kay. How much?”
“I don’t know,” Dennis muttered. “They just sent me the name of the guy and the time of the reservation. He’s a regular donor.”
“Do his donations usually come in the form of restaurant dates?”
Dennis didn’t answer, shooting him a dark look as he made for the door, but then Robby softened, smiling. “Ah-ah,” he said, reaching out and gently gripping the younger man’s shoulder. Immediately, Dennis’s legs locked and he stopped, turning back uncertainly. The older man squeezed his shoulder once, then dropped his hand. “I’m just giving you a hard time. I’m sure this guy is very interested in the work you do and he’ll love to hear all about it.” He shrugged. “But in the interest of making sure I’m not missing a capable member of my team come Monday, if it does turn out you’re on a date with a creep, then make sure you have an exit plan.”
“Got it,” Dennis said hoarsely. “Exit plan. Yeah.”
Robby had been a little more tactful last night. His present wording had Dennis fumbling over his tongue, struggling to find a response. “Um,” he said, swallowing dryly. “Look, nevermind, I –”
Robby shifted again on the other end of the line. It sounded like he’d stood; faintly he could hear footsteps on wood. “No, hang on. I’m sorry; that was an asshole thing to say.” He hesitated, this pause seeming less expectant and exasperated and more like Robby was the one trying to find words for once. When he finally spoke, it was a little quieter, softer. “Are you okay?”
Dennis bit his lip. “Can you just. . . can you come get me?” he asked in a hushed tone. Then, quickly, trying to smother the plea for help, he added, “I mean – he drove here, and I can just call an Uber – I just need, y’know, a reason to suddenly leave without having to – uh. You know.”
Keys jingled, the sound of a door opening, faint sounds of traffic on the other end of the phone. “Already on it. Send the address.”
“Are you sure? If you’ve been drinking –”
“I may have been exaggerating the effects. I’ve got a high tolerance and half a finger of whiskey isn’t going to hit the limit,” Robby cut him off, matter-of-fact. “Sit tight till I’m there. Tell your date you’re puking up your guts or something.”
Dennis rubbed his face anxiously. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you. Sorry, I wouldn’t ask if –”
“Yeah, yeah. See you in a bit.” The line went dead abruptly. Dennis pulled the phone away, a shuddering exhale rattling out of him. He opened his messages and thumbed through till he found Robby’s number. It was far down; they didn’t text often, if ever. Maybe a brief message here and there to coordinate grabbing coffees for the team or quick off-duty questions. He sent the address of the restaurant, then jumped as the door to the restroom creaked open.
“Dennis?” His stomach sank at the familiar voice; the donor in question, Matthew Horton, was in his fifties, sharply dressed, clearly wealthy, and clearly used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it. He heard the man’s shoes click across the floor, coming to a stop outside the only occupied stall. Knuckles rapped against the door. “Everything okay in there?”
He shoved his phone into his pocket and slid the lock open, opening the door. “Yeah, sorry, sorry, I just wasn’t feeling well.” He looked up at the man, then down, slipping past him. Horton didn’t step back, forcing him to brush past him even as he flinched away and pressed against the wall to slip by. Horton just watched as Dennis washed his hands, the young man’s face a bit flushed, fixing his collar and tie with unsteady hands.
“That’s alright,” he drawled, crossing the tile floor to stand behind Dennis. Whitaker glanced up, shoulders tensing as he met the man’s gaze through the mirror. Horton was tall, with broad shoulders and severe, hollow features. His temples were silvery, pale against dark hair swept back from his face, and his eyes were dark and set back into his skull, shadowed in a way that made the intense, lecherous light within them that much more stark. He’d made Dennis uneasy from the moment he sat down, and the lingering stares and odd questions hadn’t done much to assuage that feeling. Just before Dennis had excused himself to the bathroom Horton had reached across the table, resting his hand on Dennis’s wrist casually but refusing to remove it, pressing his fingers into the exposed skin. Dennis scrubbed a bit harder on the spot before shutting off the faucet and straightening. As he did, Horton rested his hand against the young man’s lower back, too low, too claiming – his stomach tensed and he thought that he just might actually be sick. “They’re overworking you, aren’t they?” Matthew asked in a low voice, guiding him towards the door, back into the restaurant, back to their table, with Dennis helpless other than to stumble along reluctantly. “You poor thing,” Horton added as he saw Dennis back to his seat. He lifted the vile hand from his back to tuck the younger man’s hair back behind his ear and Whitaker jerked away, blinking a few times. The older man just raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
Dennis swallowed and let out an uneasy laugh. “I don’t, ah, I don’t really like being touched like that,” he said, his voice taut.
“Oh?” Horton sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. The table was already small and somewhat intimate, so it brought them closer together than Dennis would’ve liked. “How do you like being touched?”
“I think you have the wrong idea,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m here to answer questions about the program, Mr. Horton.”
“Of course,” the man said, smiling thinly. “That’s what I spent a few grand for.”
“That was a donation,” Dennis said.
“Sure. It’s also a lot of money. I’d be happy to donate equal or even greater sums more frequently, if you would spend some time. . .” Horton dropped his eyes to scour over Dennis’s chest and arms. He shrank in on himself reflexively. The older man only smiled, clearly pleased at how defenseless and uncomfortable Whitaker felt. “. . . discussing the program with me,” he finished, tilting his head suggestively. “Maybe somewhere more private.”
“I don’t. . .” Dennis swallowed.
“I thought you were passionate about this project,” the man said innocently, though a flinty, harsh edge now laced around his words. “I’m happy to donate to your personal wellbeing too, if that’s a concern. But I do expect to get my money’s worth tonight.”
Dennis stared at his food, his mouth dry. He fidgeted in place, lips parting, then pinching back together, brows pushed together in a mix of panic and anger and discomfort. He really didn’t want to make a scene. He wanted to get through this dinner, tell the benefit committee he’d done as they asked, and forget this humiliation had ever happened. But Horton had donated a lot of money, and that was going to go straight to feeding those in need. If he was willing to give more, it would have a real impact on the communities Whitaker cared about. Didn’t it make sense to give in? Could he really turn down that kind of money – that kind of power for good and change? Wasn’t that just selfish? Sure, the thought of it made him shudder and feel sick to his core, but –
“Can I help you?” Horton asked.
Dennis looked up from his plate with a start.
Horton was turned to face the man standing by their table, a familiar figure with a salt-and-pepper beard and a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. The donor looked a bit disgusted. Robby ignored him entirely; his eyes were fixed on Dennis. He clicked his tongue, nodding towards the entrance. “Up you get, Whitaker.”
“What are you –” Horton began, but Robby didn’t glance his way. He snapped his fingers, beckoning.
“Dennis. Let’s go.”
The use of his name did it. Relief flooded through him and his knees felt a bit weak as he stood, fishing a pamphlet about the program out of his pocket that he’d brought to talk through their mission. He slid it towards the donor. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go,” he mumbled. Then he paused, pushing his shoulders back. He looked Horton in the eye. “I’m not interested in any of your donations, Mr. Horton.”
He turned, and Robby placed a hand on his neck, steering him towards the door with a gentle warmth. It didn’t burn or feel stomach-churning; it was steady, supporting, a suggestion instead of a domineering motion. It made him feel claimed and safe, and on the heels of relief came a flood of satisfaction as he caught the parting look of anger on Horton’s face.
By the time they made it outside to where Robby’s bike waited, a bubble of laughter burst out of Whitaker. He laughed to the pavement, grinning, glancing up at Robby. The older man had a matching wearied smile. He passed over the helmet he carried. “Put this on.”
Dennis took it, noting the thin layer of dust on its surface. Apparently Robby didn’t have passengers too often. As he tugged it on, he glanced at the bike, then to Robby. “Where’s yours?”
“I’ll be fine.” The older man leaned down slightly, squinting as he helped Dennis fasten the chinstrap. His touch was warm and firm, the backs of his fingers brushing up against the younger man’s chin as he adjusted the strap.
Dennis tugged off his tie, stuffing it into his pocket. “You should really wear a helmet.”
“So I hear.” Robby straightened, clapping him on the shoulder, nodding to the bike. “Climb on. Let’s get you out of here.”
He swung a leg over the bike and clambered on, perching on the back and leaning back expectantly. Robby raised an eyebrow. “That was more graceful than I expected.”
Dennis laughed. “I rode horses for years. This is like climbing on a Shetland.” He rested his palms on his thighs, fingers tapping anxiously as Robby walked closer, chuckling, shaking his head. “You can say it,” he said finally.
The older man glanced at him. “Say what?”
He shrugged. “I told you so.”
Robby sat down on the bike, zipping up his jacket. He reached back and tapped on the side of the bike. “Rest your feet here.” He waited while Dennis swung his feet into place. It naturally made him lean forward a bit, but he kept his arms braced on the bike. “And I’’m not gloating that you got stuck with a creep. I’m pissed that your little charity group didn’t protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” Dennis muttered.
Robby looked over his shoulder at him. “Oh? Then why am I here?” At Dennis’s sour look, he smiled. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Dennis scoffed, hiding a smile as he looked down.
“Well, I’m happy to have you on my bike. I just wish it was under better circumstances.” Robby started the engine. “So where am I taking you? Home?”
He hadn’t thought much about that. Santos had had nearly the same concerns as Robby with this dinner, and she definitely wouldn’t hesitate to tell him I told you so in the form of a lengthy lecture. He wasn’t sure if he could stomach that at the moment. “Uh. . .”
“Okay, my home it is.”
“No, it’s fine,” Dennis said quickly. “You already came to get me and everything.”
“Yeah, so you’re doing me a favor. I can sleep sooner, and you can crash on the pullout couch. Sometimes it’s nice to have a change of scenery.” He revved the bike to life, then spared one more glance back. “You’re gonna want to hang on, Whitaker.”
Hesitantly, Dennis placed one hand on Robby’s shoulder and nodded. He could feel the older man sigh under his hand, then they peeled away from the curb, out of the parking lot, and onto the streets.
He was keenly, overly aware of everything he was doing – how he was sitting, how hard he was gripping Robby’s shoulder. With the sound of the engine drowning out everything else, it felt like that point of contact was multiplied by a thousand. As they picked up speed, he leaned forward naturally, bracing his hands against the front of the bike, pressing the insides of his arms against Robby’s sides. The older man reached down and picked up one of his hands, firmly planting it against his chest. Dennis felt his cheeks flush. It was stupid, incredibly stupid to feel embarrassed about basic safety, but it felt so intimate and the more he thought about it, the redder he got. Robby glanced back at him once, quickly, a bit exasperated once more. He tapped Dennis’s other hand that was still planted against the bike, but Whitaker refused to move it. Robby shook his head.
After a few seconds, he felt the bike suddenly brake, then accelerate, then brake again – a few times in rapid succession, making him nearly lose his balance, wondering in a panic if he was going to slip right off. Instinctively, he wrapped both arms tightly around Robby, drawing himself close so that his chest pressed tightly to his back. Miraculously, the bike smoothed out and continued at a steady pace. Tentatively, he loosened his grip, moving to return his hands to the bike.
Robby tapped his wrist, stalling the motion in its tracks.
His face was impossibly, unbearably hot as he obediently tightened his arms around Robby once more. Could he feel how fast Dennis’s heart was racing? Could he feel how flushed and burning he was? How many times had he imagined exactly this – well, minus the whole creep thing, but the idea of Robby giving him a ride on his bike, complete with Dennis being forced to cling tight to him, feel the muscles and hard lines of his back, lean into the turns in the highway, feel the wind whip past them. . .
God, he was embarrassing himself. He really was. First calling Robby like a desperate, stupid kid that needed a ride home, then this. Robby was just doing him a favor, keeping his team safe and sane so that the Pitt could run efficiently, and Dennis was getting hot under the collar and daydreaming. You’ve got to stop.
They stopped at a red light and Dennis took a deep breath to steady himself. Then Robby dropped his hand back, drumming his fingertips against Dennis’s knee as he looked at him over his shoulder. You okay? he mouthed.
Dennis nodded tightly. Robby faced forward again as the light turned green.
Ten minutes later, they’d come to a halt in Robby’s driveway. He killed the bike and slid off it easily, slapping Dennis on the back as the younger man got off with slightly shaky limbs. He chalked it up to the cold – the wind had cut straight through his suit. He pulled off the helmet and held it out to Robby, who took it with a nod and left it on top of the bike. “Come on,” he said, gesturing to the house and leading the way to the front door. “Let’s get you inside before you keel over.”
“I’m fine,” Dennis said quickly, trailing after him.
Robby gave him a look as he opened the door, raising an eyebrow. “You’re freezing, and you’re not going to get any sleep in that suit.” He let Dennis in, shutting the door behind him. “Kitchen’s straight ahead.”
The lights were still on to guide Dennis’s way, and he stepped into the kitchen and glanced around before leaning back against the counter with a long exhale.
A few clatters came from the hallway – keys as Robby tossed them somewhere, a closet door as he hung up his jacket – then Robby appeared in the kitchen, glancing at Dennis to study him under the warm overhead light. His gaze lingered for a long moment and Dennis shifted, looking away. Robby nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied that Dennis looked unharmed. He clicked his tongue and reflexively, Dennis looked up. Robby’s eyes softened. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Yeah, we got through to dessert,” Dennis mumbled.
Robby leaned back against the counter, mirroring Dennis, locking his elbows behind him. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
He avoided Robby’s gaze religiously, studying the tile flooring instead. It was pretty clean for a bachelor pad. Maybe he hired a cleaning service. He couldn’t imagine Robby on the ground scrubbing dirt from the grout. “No, I’m fine.”
“Worried I’ll rally the cavalry?” He caught the joking gleam in Robby’s eye and couldn’t hide a faint smile. Robby shrugged. “It’s a fair concern. But if you just want to talk about it, I’m here.”
“I’m fine,” Dennis repeated. “Really. It was just a sticky situation. You got me out at the perfect time.”
Robby nodded slowly. “Okay. But you’re going to tell the committee.”
It wasn’t a question. Dennis found himself nodding. “Yeah, I will. I mean, I can handle it, but I don’t want anyone else getting cornered by him like that.”
“You can handle it?” Robby repeated it with a frown, tipping his head. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean. . .” Dennis shifted, his throat working. “I don’t know. He offered a lot of money.” His eyes widened, and he added hastily, “For the charity! Not for me. I mean, he offered, but I don’t – I wouldn’t do it for me.”
“But you’d do that for a charity?” Robby frowned. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I don’t know.” He floundered a bit, looking away, his cheeks turning a bright pink.
Robby ran a hand over his face, sighing. “Let me answer that for you: No. You’re not doing that.” When Dennis didn’t respond or look up, he pushed off the counter and stepped closer, immediately drawing the man’s eyes up. “Dennis,” he said quietly, his voice low and challenging.
“I’m not doing that,” Dennis said quickly, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Sorry. I’m – that came out wrong.”
“Okay.” Robby paused, his eyes running back and forth over the young man’s face. His brows pulled together for just a moment like he was thinking, considering the reaction there, confused and pondering. “Can I ask you something?”
Whitaker nodded numbly. He took a slow step forward, keeping close to the counter to mask the fact he was creeping closer to Robby for no clear reason. It felt safer to skate the edges of the kitchen to draw them closer together. Less of an admission of intent and interest, more an excuse of wandering, idle pacing.
“Why’d you call me? Why’d you make me the exit plan?”
Dennis hesitated before answering. “I knew you’d come.”
“Plenty of your friends would.”
Dennis shrugged, acquiescing. “Okay, but I knew you’d come and I knew you wouldn’t make fun of me.”
Robby nodded, grimacing with a wry chuckle. “Well, now I feel bad for the joke I was going to make.” At Dennis’s questioning look, he shrugged. “I was going to offer to match his bid. So that you didn’t have to do it again.”
A surprised laugh tore out of him. “Oh, I’d do it for free,” he said lightly. Then, once his mind caught up with his mouth, he tensed. “I mean, because we’re. . . you know, I know you.”
“Right,” Robby said. He’d taken another step closer to Robby at some point, and now they weren’t very far apart at all. In fact, Dennis could have just lifted his hand and placed it against Robby’s chest, and then he wondered why he’d even thought that, because why would he do that? Other than the obvious fact that he desperately wanted to do that, just like he’d desperately wanted to ride on Robby’s bike so that he had an excuse to touch him.
Robby spoke again in a low, rumbling voice, gazing down at Dennis. “And you know I wouldn’t try to feel you up in the bathroom.”
Dennis stared up at him, blinking twice. He didn’t think he was imagining the faintly suggestive, flirtatious undercurrent in Robby’s tone, the spark of interest buried in the man’s eyes. He certainly wasn’t imagining how close they were standing. The fact that Robby hadn’t moved from the counter, hadn’t stepped back from Dennis’s approach. He wetted his lips, then bit the bullet. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
Robby arched one eyebrow. A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Maybe?”
Heat flushed through him. Robby wasn’t scandalized or shocked, not disgusted, not recoiling. Oh, god. This was actually happening. A breathy laugh escaped him. “I wouldn’t mind if you did,” he amended.
Robby’s gaze dipped to Dennis’s chest, then he brought a hand up to the younger man’s side, slipping under his jacket to cradle the side of his ribs with one broad hand. “Is that so,” he said softly.
Dennis’s lips parted. Tentatively, he matched Robby’s gesture, feeling the soft cotton of the older man’s T-shirt and the hard muscle, soft flesh, and bone beneath. He could feel the rate of his breath, steady at first, now quickening. No doubt Robby could feel how quickly Dennis was breathing, too, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“So you wouldn’t mind,” Robby said quietly, “if I did this?” He traced his hand down Dennis’s side, around to his back, purposefully dragging him closer to press their fronts together.
His breath hitched, and he turned a few shades redder. “No,” he mumbled.
The older man hummed thoughtfully. “And this?” He slipped his hand down, palming, groping Dennis’s ass over his slacks. His hips jumped in response, grinding against Robby without meaning to.
“Uh – n-no,” Dennis grunted, both hands on Robby’s chest now, bracing himself for stability. He tried to draw his hips away, mumbling out an apology, but the older man kept him close easily. There was give to his grip – if Dennis gave more effort than the weak attempt he’d offered, he knew Robby would let him back off. But he didn’t give it more effort, instead melting forward again, and Robby’s arm tightened in response before moving to the younger man’s front, both hands joining to slowly unbuckle his pants.
Dennis watched him work, breathing heavily, lips parted, watching the strong fingers slip his belt free methodically, coiling it slowly and methodically and setting it aside on the counter. One hand lifted to Dennis’s jaw, pressing into his chin to lift his gaze up to Robby’s. An equally undone, enraptured expression met him there; Robby seemed fascinated with the expression in Dennis’s eye, the desperation and need pooled in its depths. The older man’s thumb pressed gently against his lower lip, teasing it downward while he continued to unbutton and unzip Dennis’s slacks with his free hand. The young man let out a guttural groan, need pulsing down his spine, exploding in his stomach and throbbing desperately to his dick. Robby was moving painfully slow, pulling the zipper down lazily. It felt like every notch that was unzipped sent a vibration straight to Dennis’s dick, and he tensed, letting out another sharp exhale against the older man’s thumb.
“You’d let me do this?” Robby asked hoarsely.
“Please,” Dennis answered, lips wet.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “You’d beg me for this?” He slipped into Dennis’s pants, down under the waistband of his boxers, closing around his hardened dick. Whitaker closed his eyes tightly for a moment, a whimper escaping as Robby slowly freed him from the constraints of his slacks. He looked down, pressing his lips together and shuddering at the sight of the man’s large, steady hand circled around his dick. It made him feel smaller than he was, seeing it in Robby’s hand instead of his own somehow. He was fully hard already, veins standing out, tip flushed and wet. He quickly drew his lip into his mouth and bit down hard, groaning.
Robby chuckled quietly. “Easy,” he soothed. “I know. It feels good, huh?”
He nodded quickly, desperately. “Fuck, please. Robby –” He jerked his hips forward, and a moan ripped out of him not just at the sensation but at the sight of his dick dragging through Robby’s fist. He drew his hips back, then thrust forward again, leaning against Robby’s chest to keep his balance.
“Patience,” Robby said. He held Dennis’s hips in place with one hand, chuckling at the forlorn whine that the younger man gave when he let go of his cock. “Just wait.” He lifted his palm to his hand and spat, slicking it up, then dropping it down to Dennis’s cock to palm at the tip. He played with the sensitive head for a while, teasing more precum from the tip, only smiling when Dennis groaned and whimpered, each spurt making the young man’s cock jump and twitch. “Fuck, you’re sensitive,” he rasped.
“Please,” Dennis whimpered. “Please, I want to fuck your fist so bad, please –”
Robby groaned over the top of him, wrapping his hand around the rest of his shaft and releasing his hips to let the younger man stutter and thrust forward. “Good boy,” he murmured. “That’s it. Keep fucking like that.”
Dennis was shaking, legs trembling, drawing his dick back and forth, heady whines and moans gasping out of him with each thrust. His balls felt tight and hot, the sensitive skin rubbing inside his boxers. Robby’s fist felt so fucking warm and good – he knew when to squeeze, when to twist his wrist just a bit to – to –
“Go on,” Robby murmured.
He came with a stuttering groan, his hands fisted in Robby’s shirt, his forehead pressed to his chest as his hips jerked forward. Robby continued to stroke him through it, and he flinched and whined, breathing heavily. Finally, when he grew too sensitive, Robby gently let go of him, tucking him back into his boxers and buttoning his pants back up. Dennis looked down at the evident bulge in Robby’s pants, swallowing.
“Can I – I can –”
“No,” Robby said softly. He smiled gently, turning to the sink and washing his hands. It was something Dennis had seen him do a dozen times before surgery, but watching his own spend drip and run off the doctor’s hands made his stomach flutter and clench weakly. He bit his lip.
“But I –” Robby turned, drying his hands on a towel and fixing Dennis with an amused look. He pressed on, finishing: “I want to.”
Robby’s eyes glittered. “I know.” He clapped Dennis on the shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll let you sleep on it.” He walked down the hall. “Hang tight. I’ll get you some clothes to borrow. Pullout couch is just out here; feel free to start getting it ready. I’ll bring blankets.”
He watched Robby walk off with slightly parted lips. The faint smirk on Robby’s face when he turned away was unmistakable. He couldn’t shake the distinct sense he got from it: Robby didn’t want Dennis to be able to write off this night and skulk away into the night. He wanted Dennis to have to face it. To have to ask for it tomorrow, to bring it up and – and what, make him beg for it? No, he was going to do that on his own – Robby wouldn’t have to ask him to do that. He pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing under his breath.
He was fucked.