When he ends it with Blair, it's not because of the sex. That leaves him melted and hard, hot fudge sundae time. At work, he schedules snatched, secret moments when he can dwell on what Blair's mouth does to him, the knowing, teasing scrape of teeth and nails, the warmth of his breath and hair and skin.
He can get hard just anticipating those moments. Just from that. God.
So, no. Not the sex. Blair owns him there, too, an across the board sweep of possession.
It's knowing that for Blair the sex is fine, oh, man, sure it is, but you know, there's this movie on and you know I promised I'd -- tomorrow, right?
He can't endure the loneliness of this ecstasy -- and it is, pure, white-light, mind-blowing bliss -- can't keep fucking an insensate, smiling Blair who doesn't know how good it is, what he's missing, can never have.
Can't share what he feels. There aren't any words for this.
Can't use Blair when Blair's complaisant, no more, happy to be fucked, or fuck, no more than that, no more --
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