Lucas didn't move fast. That would've been too easy.
No, he shifted slowly, deliberately, dragging one knee back just far enough to shift his weight, his hips still pressing down against Trevor's. The friction was maddening, warm, and completely unintentional, if one ignored the gleam in his eyes.
His hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric inch by inch. The motion revealed skin in waves, sweat-dampened, flushed gold in the muted morning light. He didn't rush it. He let Trevor watch; the shirt caught briefly under his ribs before it was finally peeled away and tossed aside, forgotten.
Trevor's hands stayed where they were, gripping Lucas's hips now with enough force to tremble, but he didn't move. His jaw clenched. His throat bobbed. But his eyes never left Lucas's.
Lucas smiled, slow and dangerous.
