Viggo knew precisely what he did. He knew how powerful his words were, how stimulating his touches were when Sean wasn't able to predict their coming. Viggo leant forward and kissed him, hungrily, and he found himself breathing in hard, shocked and utterly delighted, practically glowing. When the kiss was broken his lips stung, bitten and sucked until the cool air that swept across them seemed to make them burst and tingle. Every sensation was like that--a wild, overwhelming oversensitisation. The whisper of Viggo's sleeve, and then the other man's sharp teeth were slashing down his throat, leaving those same tingling prickles, leaving the rushing of his heartbeat roaring in his ears, a constant thrum underneath the other powerfully accentuated noises.
Again he could hear cloth moving, and then it flicked against his arms, and Sean was confused for just a second before he realised what he was doing. It wasn't his fault--he was distracted, because Viggo was purring delicious, sultry words into his ear, and his erection strained, pressed hard against the tight, tailored, starched lines of his white pants.
"Jesus," he whispered - exclaimed - and lifted his chest toward the grace of Viggo's hands, of the cloth that flickered briefly across, but not briefly enough not to flick his nipples suggestively as it passed. The words were worse than the touches--a thousand times worse.
He only found himself overwhelmed, and a moment later bound, and he opened and closed his fingers several times, his heart jumping, and tilted his head to one side, toward Viggo's voice. He could feel his arousal as the other man pressed against him, just for a second, the heat at his ear, the gravel roughness of Viggo's voice, and he rolled his shoulders back, leaning toward him only to find him gone. His lips were parted, his breaths short and quick, but for a moment Viggo was gone, and Sean could only hear him breathing if he strained his ears just as hard as he could.
Just the slightest touch, the sweetest promise, and he moaned, and then Viggo was back on him again, kissing his tender lips and swallowing up his breath, and Sean wondered how the hell he was supposed to get through a photo shoot when he felt like this.
He remembered David, but that didn't help at all. It just made him harder, because in his mind there was that loud memory, throbbing at the back of his eyes, of leaning over to kiss Viggo in the darkened cinema, Christian's lips on screen quivering an inch away from his straining jeans, his own face - mouth open - his lower lip trembling, his eyes black pits darker than the black walls of the cinema in which absolutely nothing was reflected. The memory seriously didn't help. At all.
"Fuck," he whispered, when his mouth was free, and it occured to him that he'd rarely been so goddamn eloquent. Compared to Viggo he was a damn caveman.
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Again he could hear cloth moving, and then it flicked against his arms, and Sean was confused for just a second before he realised what he was doing. It wasn't his fault--he was distracted, because Viggo was purring delicious, sultry words into his ear, and his erection strained, pressed hard against the tight, tailored, starched lines of his white pants.
"Jesus," he whispered - exclaimed - and lifted his chest toward the grace of Viggo's hands, of the cloth that flickered briefly across, but not briefly enough not to flick his nipples suggestively as it passed. The words were worse than the touches--a thousand times worse.
He only found himself overwhelmed, and a moment later bound, and he opened and closed his fingers several times, his heart jumping, and tilted his head to one side, toward Viggo's voice. He could feel his arousal as the other man pressed against him, just for a second, the heat at his ear, the gravel roughness of Viggo's voice, and he rolled his shoulders back, leaning toward him only to find him gone. His lips were parted, his breaths short and quick, but for a moment Viggo was gone, and Sean could only hear him breathing if he strained his ears just as hard as he could.
Just the slightest touch, the sweetest promise, and he moaned, and then Viggo was back on him again, kissing his tender lips and swallowing up his breath, and Sean wondered how the hell he was supposed to get through a photo shoot when he felt like this.
He remembered David, but that didn't help at all. It just made him harder, because in his mind there was that loud memory, throbbing at the back of his eyes, of leaning over to kiss Viggo in the darkened cinema, Christian's lips on screen quivering an inch away from his straining jeans, his own face - mouth open - his lower lip trembling, his eyes black pits darker than the black walls of the cinema in which absolutely nothing was reflected. The memory seriously didn't help. At all.
"Fuck," he whispered, when his mouth was free, and it occured to him that he'd rarely been so goddamn eloquent. Compared to Viggo he was a damn caveman.