Shawn's come is dry on Carlton's face, sticky in his hair. His cock's a
stiff, rigid scream that Shawn's not listening to.
Carlton breaths out, his hands, forbidden to curl into fists, sticking
to the sweat-damp skin of his thighs.
He's running out of time. Shawn's first words on arrival were to tell
him that he was leaving at seven. There's a Magnum P.I. marathon he
doesn't want to miss, apparently. Carlton knows he's lying as surely as
he knows that Shawn will still leave in, God, six minutes.
He's on his own here if he wants to find relief. Shawn won't touch him.
Not now. Carlton had called him 'Spencer' earlier, unthinking, so
fucking stupid of him when he knows Shawn hates it,
and Shawn's angry with him, a cold disapproval so different from the
contempt Carlton craves, doled out in stinging slaps, Shawn's eyes warm
if you know how to look at them just right.
He's lucky Shawn didn't leave right then, the slam of the door
punctuating his frantic, gabbled apologies. He has issues, yes, but
they pale compared to Shawn's with Henry, so determined that his name
not be sullied by Shawn's actions, too stubborn to see that he's given
Shawn the perfect weapon.
"You're pathetic," Shawn says, his voice lifeless, listless, none of
the sneer and sizzle Carlton's used to, adores.
God, please don't get bored of this, of me. Not this soon.
It's only been a month, Please.
"As pathetic as a fake psychic? I doubt that."
Sometimes Shawn likes a spark of rebellion to stamp out. Carlton,
filled with a baffled gratitude and worry, is trying to say thank you
in small ways as often as he can. Flowers and chocolate don't seem
appropriate when what he's grateful for is Shawn's astonishing ability
to twist his body with pleasure as keen and sharp as a cold wind. It's
easy for Shawn to find the words and actions to reduce Carlton to
nothing but sensation, pure and hot, humiliation intense and perfect
stripping away every defense so that Shawn only has to reach out to be
able to touch him at will these days.
And tonight, he fucking won't
"Yes, I really doubt that, Spencer," Carlton says, driven to breaking
the one rule that he shouldn't, goaded by the remorseless tick of the
clock and Shawn's glazed, indifferent eyes.
The backhanded slap across his face doesn't hurt, so Shawn thought
about it before he delivered it, but it's enough. His climax rips
through him, violent, painful, and Shawn's gone before it's over, but
he's left angry, not bored, so he'll be back.
He'll want to make sure that Carlton apologizes properly, and Carlton's
already planning how.