Jian Ci's breath stopped. The wine bottle was forgotten, heavy in his lap. Every movement was a hook set deep in his gut. That waist.
The way Yu Xi's spine curved as he arched back, the hem of his t-shirt riding up to show a sliver of skin above the waistband of his pants. The smile. That fucking smile. It was like Yu Xi was sharing a secret, a filthy, wonderful secret, and Jian Ci was the only one in the world meant to hear it.
Heat, sudden and demanding, flooded Jian Ci's groin. It was a sharp, aching pulse that made his pants feel two sizes too small, the fabric suddenly a brutal friction against his hardening cock.
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but there was none. Every slight adjustment just made him more aware of the thick, heavy weight of his erection straining against his pants. He was glad, desperately glad, for the dim light. His face felt hot, his mouth dry. He was parched, but not for wine.
