Work Text:
Warm hands rub over Buccellati’s chest through the window at the front of his suit. A pleasant weight leans along his back, white hair brushing over his shoulder as those hands dip beneath fabric to get at more skin.
“Leone.”
Matte black lips press a, “Hm?” to Buccellati’s temple, and take their trail of kisses downward from there.
“I’m working.” Except he’s sort of paused now. His fingers are hovering over the keyboard, twitching against it when one of those overzealous hands in his shirt reaches a nipple. Unconsciously, his head tips into the gentle press of lips along his cheek – they're heading back up, now, toward his temple.
Abbacchio sighs, his chest expanding where it’s slumped against Buccellati, his breath ruffling dark bangs. “You said you’d be finished by now.”
Truth be told, Buccellati could be finished. But there’s one more email he wants to send, a couple of other things he wants to look into, a drafted request that could use polishing before it’s formally put through…
“Just a little longer,” he promises, “I’m almost done.”
Abbacchio lets out an irritated groan, his face dropping to Buccellati’s neck. The deft fingers of one of his hands undo the section of suit at Buccellati’s throat, tugging aside crisp white for more access. “That’s what you said an hour ago,” a kiss to the junction of Buccellati’s neck and shoulder, “and before dinner,” another kiss, a little higher up, “and when you started, five hours ago,” one more kiss, just under the edge of Buccellati’s jaw.
At the feeling of teeth working his skin, Buccellati tips his head more, eyelids fluttering. He hasn’t typed a word since Abbacchio slithered up behind him. The arms around him squeeze in something like a hug, one hand still teasing a nipple while the other seems content to brush back and forth across his tattoo.
“You need to take a break, at least,” Abbacchio murmurs into sensitive skin before sucking a mark there, and Buccellati fights off a shiver.
One of his hands abandons the keyboard, almost making it to tangle with Abbacchio’s until he stops himself. He lowers it back down with more force than intended, typing out a jumble of letters that he has to backspace while Abbacchio’s hot mouth glides down his neck.
“I’ll –” he swallows, Abbacchio’s teeth and lips and tongue are coaxing another bruise that he’s not sure his suit is high enough to hide, and oh he’s trying not to think about the amount of lipstick that’s already smeared along his face and neck, “– I’ll take a break when I’m done.”
Because he has to finish this one more thing, and then he’ll gladly relax.
But it’ll take him even longer with Abbacchio draped over him and undoing the rest of his shirt, hands dipping lower and lower over newly exposed skin.
The ministrations pause, and Abbacchio uses one hand to turn Buccellati’s head toward him – and Buccellati really shouldn’t go with this because if he looks at Abbacchio he won’t be able to focus on any kind of work related task, but –
Once-neat black lipstick is smudged over Abbacchio’s lips, less matte than before thanks to the shine of saliva. His expression is set in a typical frown, and Buccellati hates the way his gaze catches on that messy mouth, on those eyes with their dilated pupils.
There’s…there’s work he wants to get done…
“You’re never done,” Abbacchio grumbles. He doesn’t leave Buccellati any room to pose a counter argument, quick as he is at shoving their mouths together.
And Buccellati melts because both his heart and his body are weak for Abbacchio in particular.
At the same time as Buccellati grabs for the back of Abbacchio’s head, Abbacchio moves from behind the chair to standing at Buccellati’s side. The angle of their kiss is much better like this, slick lips pulling away only to press back in and overlap with his own.
“I’d love to,” Buccellati’s words are drowned in a pleased noise that sneaks out of him when Abbacchio sucks on his bottom lip, so he continues once Abbacchio’s had his fill of biting it, “tumble into bed with you –”
Abbacchio – who has been doing his level best to administer kisses through every word Buccellati has said – pulls away with a wet noise, looking as breathless as Buccellati feels.
“And enjoy ourselves until we’re both too tired to move.” By now, stuff like this is only a little bit mortifying to admit. It’s made easy by how flustered Abbacchio gets at anything resembling dirty talk, the more affectionate the better, Buccellati has learned. Which is why he feels bad for capping it off with: “But give me a minute, okay?”
He really, really should finish this email. Before he loses track of where he was going with it. If he puts it down now, he’ll never remember the exact wording he wants to use.
The exact wording, which was…uh…
There’s a disgruntled expression on Abbacchio’s face, and he huffs. But his cheeks are flushed pink when he steps away from Buccellati, muttering something about workaholics under his breath.
Buccellati has an odd mix of arousal bogged down by work ethic unfurling in his gut.
So that he could get a little more work done, that’s why he told Abbacchio to wait – but his eyes never snap back to his computer screen, instead stuck on the absolute vision that is Abbacchio. Said vision is stomping his way around to the front of Buccellati’s desk –
–Where he drops to his knees and disappears from view.
Buccellati blinks.
Those same warm hands that were feeling up his chest earlier take hold of his knees, now, from there sliding up the insides of his thighs, guiding them into a spread and oh.
Oh fuck.
“You work too much,” Abbacchio says, from under the desk and between Buccellati’s legs.
Buccellati’s feet push his chair back a little ways without him telling them to. Like this, he can see. His throat goes dry, cock twitching with interest as Abbacchio peers up with bright eyes, squeezing handfuls of the thighs that frame him.
A soft sound squeaks out of Buccellati’s throat, and he sinks lower in his seat. “Leone –” He has to physically bite his lip on the rest of that sentence, because at the sound of his name, Abbacchio leans forward, elbows resting at the sides of Buccellati’s hips and torso snug at the apex of his thighs as purple-gold eyes continue to blink expectantly up at him.
Abbacchio’s pupils eyes are blown wide, his black lipstick in disarray, white hair mussed. And Buccellati can still taste him –
“What is it?” Abbacchio plays innocent, dropping a kiss to the bare skin of Buccellati’s stomach, within reach thanks to his earlier work undoing the suit jacket.
Only Buccellati’s fingers cling to a stubborn sense of (probably misplaced) responsibility, back to resting on the keyboard, his fingernails catching on the edges of the keys.
He’s lost the wording for that email.
It was unimportant anyway.
Jerking his hands away from the keyboard, Buccellati snaps his laptop shut. “All right,” he says on a deep breath, “you win.”
A triumphant sort of smirk works its way onto Abbacchio’s face, and he sucks an open-mouthed kiss to Buccellati’s abdomen before sitting back on his heels. His hands resettle atop Buccellati’s thighs and rub all the way up, thumbs brushing the insides at the very top.
Buccellati spreads his legs wider in invitation, trying to convey as much yes please god yes with his eyes as he can when he meets Abbacchio’s gaze, hands clinging tight to the seat of his chair, grasping at the edges of the wood.
And he still manages to squeeze tighter when Abbacchio starts a path of firm kisses from his pants button, all the way down as far as he can reach – then back up.
“You,” Buccellati’s breath hitches midsentence, Abbacchio’s heated palm rubbing insistent at the base of his still-soft cock through his pants, “stained them.”
Shimmering eyes are fixed on his face as Abbacchio nibbles the skin just above Buccellati’s waistband. “Do you mind?”
“No,” and he really doesn’t. He’s an expert at removing lipstick stains by now, and he has a backup suit, and most importantly why the hell would he complain about the way Abbacchio’s hand lifts away so he can resume mouthing at Buccellati’s cock –
Warm breath seeps through layers of fabric, as does the feel of Abbacchio’s tongue and the gentle pressure of his lips and teeth. All of it combines to coax Buccellati’s cock to further hardness, heat pulsing low in his gut at each deliberate touch.
Mouth dipping downward to work Buccellati’s balls, the heel of Abbacchio’s hand rubs firm over his cock – and Buccellati groans, hips lifting off of the chair.
He needs more direct contact with the warm-wet of Abbacchio’s talented mouth –
But Abbacchio is fond of taking things slow, and while Buccellati doesn’t mind all the buildup, it can’t hurt to ease things along a little. Reciprocate some pleasure. He buries a hand into long white hair, tugging and mussing the strands until Abbacchio is moaning vibrations onto his cock.
“Fuck, Bruno.” Abbacchio drops one heavy kiss to Buccellati’s clothed cock – and then another.
“Please,” the word slips out, thin and pathetic and needier than Buccellati meant it to sound.
Not that Abbacchio seems to mind, palming generously at Buccellati’s cock in response, kissing the tip through fabric one last time before he pulls away.
Buccellati makes a soft noise – another one that he hadn’t meant to let slip. He’s breathing heavily, one hand still tangled in Abbacchio’s hair and the other cramping in its grip on the chair. His cock is half-hard and wanting, straining in his pants.
Thankfully Abbacchio is equally as eager, his knuckles brushing plenty-sensitive areas as he undoes Buccellati’s pants button. Drags the zipper down with his teeth, even.
Which is sexy and adorable and has Buccellati’s mouth tipping into a fond smile – at least until it falls open on a handful of hitched breaths as Abbacchio noses his way into Buccellati’s pants, tongue already working through the lace of his underwear.
“Leone,” his hips twitch in rhythm with the steady suckle Abbacchio is working up but he needs more, god, “please.”
Abbacchio lets out a long, low hum of acknowledgement, his eyelids fluttering and dipping low. But he doesn’t pick up the pace, and by now Buccellati is fully hard and aching for slick, wet heat instead of the rough slide of damp fabric.
He tightens his hold on Abbacchio’s hair, trying and failing to control his breathing. Sweat drips down his neck toward the center of his chest as his head falls back (when did it get so hot in here?). That mouth runs along the length of his cock one more time, and when it pulls away his hips buck to try and follow it –
There’s a muffled bang! and Abbacchio grunts out a curse.
Buccellati tips his head upright, and doesn’t quite manage to stifle a surprised laugh at the sight of Abbacchio rubbing a hand through his hair, giving the desk an accusatory glare.
The glare cuts out, though, when that laugh sneaks out of Buccellati, and in its place Abbacchio’s eyes soften at the edges, fixed on Buccellati.
“Sorry,” Buccellati says, caught in that weighty, purple-gold gaze, “I –”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Abbacchio mutters, something like a flat grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“I think it was a group effort.” That earns him a snort of laughter from Abbacchio. He adjusts own hand alongside Abbacchio’s in that white hair, feeling his scalp for damage. “You okay?”
Oh-so-subtly, Abbacchio leans his head into the touch. “Yeah. Fine.” His hand slides out of his own hair to land warm on Buccellati’s hip, the other already busy climbing its way back up the inside of a thigh.
Buccellati swallows. “Here, let me…” by way of explanation, he scoots his chair backwards some more, until Abbacchio can shuffle the rest of the way out from under the desk – or at least far enough out that he’s not in danger of hitting his head again.
Abbacchio’s muttered, “Thanks,” is accompanied by a kiss just to the side of Buccellati’s navel.
And Buccellati barely has time to make a soft noise of acknowledgement before Abbacchio is mouthing at the base of his cock. Said noise tapers off into a ragged moan, one that spikes when Abbacchio’s palm ghosts over the head.
“Oh…!”
More than anything, Buccellati wants to feel that expert mouth on his skin – wants lipstick to smear over his cock before it’s all rubbed off on his clothes – wants that tongue – the heat of Abbacchio swallowing him –
But he also loves to let Abbacchio set this type of pace, until he’s so far gone with pleasure that he can’t keep his bucking hips in check anymore. Which is a state he might very well be in soon, if Abbacchio keeps this up.
Those hands are hot brands on Buccellati’s hips, Abbacchio’s mouth lingering on the tip of Buccellati’s cock to thoroughly wet the lace, tongue circling, and Buccellati whines.
This is just about all that he can take. He buries both hands into Abbacchio’s hair, grabbing at fistfuls. The groan he gets in response vibrates down his cock and he meets the sound with one of his own, legs splaying impossibly wider and he needs, “More, Leone –”
Abbacchio’s hands glide inward from Buccellati’s hips, long fingers brushing the sensitized skin of his abdomen until they meet in the middle. From there they stroke down, in a firm press around where Abbacchio’s mouth is still savoring his cockhead – and then they come together, thumbs hooking over each other beneath his balls – they fondle the whole way up – slowly –
Buccellati bites his tongue on an embarrassingly loud moan, mouth pressed firm shut and hands yanking on Abbacchio’s hair. His hips shift restlessly, those hands doing a number on him with their firm pressure chasing the wet-rough suction of Abbacchio’s mouth.
“God,” Buccellati’s lips unseal themselves to spill hitching, whimpering breaths, “please, Leone, I want – mh –!”
Mouth lifting off of Buccellati’s cock, Abbacchio drops a line of kisses upward, teeth following each one with a small, pinching bite.
His overlapped hands stroke the rest of the way up the length of Buccellati’s cock, and by now Buccellati’s thighs are twitching with minute tremors, heat coiled impossibly tight in his gut. His hips jerk when Abbacchio’s thumbs drag over the tip of his cock.
Then those long hands separate, and Abbacchio finally, finally dips his fingertips into Buccellati’s underwear, coaxing his cock out with a too-light touch.
Buccellati lets out a drawn out groan from between clenched tight teeth, his hands clawing through Abbacchio’s hair, tangling in the strands. He’s not going to last, with all of this teasing and Abbacchio’s love of the slowest pace imaginable.
“You look so good like this,” Abbacchio murmurs, deep voice setting fresh heat coursing through Buccellati’s veins. It doesn’t help that he follows that up with a firm kiss beneath the flare of Buccellati’s cockhead, his fingers just holding the shaft.
He’s still got enough lipstick on for the kiss to leave a mark, though at this angle Buccellati can’t see it, he knows it’s there, and that’s enough.
Abbacchio’s lips seal around the head, and for a moment Buccellati is afraid he’ll come right then and there.
The wet heat lavished along his tip as Abbacchio sucks – as he swirls his tongue around and dips it into the slit – is pure relief. One warm hand holds the base of Buccellati’s cock steady while the other settles on his lower back, urging him closer.
Spine arching in response, Buccellati lets the move roll up his body, canting his hips toward Abbacchio’s mouth. His mouth, which still remains locked in firm suction just around Buccellati’s cockhead, refusing to go lower or take more of him in –
“Leone,” Buccellati chokes out, fists clenching and unclenching in Abbacchio’s hair.
It’s hard to resist the urge to drag him down because those hands hold firm at Buccellati’s hips now, keeping him stuck sitting and enduring this slow pleasure while Abbacchio takes his sweet time.
Rather than speed up or go deeper, that hot mouth leaves him entirely. And Buccellati swears, trying to catch breath that he hadn’t even noticed he’d lost.
“Feel good?” Abbacchio poses the most redundant question of all time, one hand leaving Buccellati’s hip so that his thumb can rub a gentle swipe up Buccellati’s straining cock. He pays special attention to the tip, swirling tight circles over the slit, precome and spit alike slicking the way.
And Buccellati wonders how he’s supposed to offer a coherent response like this but he tries. It comes out as mostly a gasp, a soft sort of, “Ah –” that trails off into a, “hmm,” because that localized pleasure is too much and his hips are trembling, fingernails scraping through white hair as heat gathers and gathers and gathers.
There’s pressure on his balls, then. Abbacchio’s other hand is kneading them in a gentle grip, and Buccellati slides into more of a slouch on the chair, a slew of embarrassing, desperate noises sneaking out of his throat.
Abbacchio echoes these with a groan of his own as his mouth dips back in. His hot tongue swipes down the side of Buccellati’s cock, while his hand eases Buccellati’s balls free from lace.
The other thumb is still working his tip, and Buccellati can’t help the way his hips buck up when Abbacchio sucks his balls in one at a time, tongue working around them with intent.
“Nnh –!”
It’s impossible to keep still. Hips rocking into Abbacchio’s mouth – his hands – all Buccellati can do is hold on against the surges of heat and pleasure racing rapid-fire down his spine.
He’s too close to orgasm to puzzle out the position that’ll grant Abbacchio perfect access; so he’s stuck squirming in place, clenching his jaw on moans. Little jolts tick through his thighs, Abbacchio grabbing at one of them as he sucks –
Fuck, Buccellati wants more from that teasing mouth or he’ll never –
Abbacchio lifts his thumb away from the oversensitive head, mouth letting Buccellati’s balls pop free.
“Shit,” Buccellati gasps, at the sudden lack of stimulation, “Leone…”
Firm lips land back on his cock, kissing a straight path up from the base to the tip, and Buccellati lets his hands slip free from Abbacchio’s hair so he can cradle his jaw with weak fingers. He’s panting, his body jerking when Abbacchio’s lips settle on his tip, sucking hard just around the slit.
“Please –!”
With a hum, Abbacchio pokes his tongue out for a lick, thumb rubbing too-gentle at the seam of Buccellati’s balls, barely brushing down past them to tease at his perineum.
Buccellati’s head falls back on a rough groan, back arching and one of his hands flying back to its vice grip on Abbacchio’s hair because fuck that isn’t fair.
Another kiss is dropped onto the head of his cock, warm and wet, and Buccellati can’t take it.
He’s simmering just below the surface, climax hovering out of reach, so close that his cock throbs when he just looks at Leone there, between his legs, barely-black lips lingering on his cockhead, pupils blown wide –
Leone is so beautiful it hurts.
And he started all of this. Has just been teasing the whole time in that sweet, savoring way that he prefers, but Buccellati can’t stand right at this second because he wants and he loves and it’s too much.
There’s drool at the corner of Abbacchio’s mouth, tinted by dark lipstick. Buccellati wipes it away with his thumb, watching Abbacchio’s face go soft at the touch, his lips slackening to brush a loose, slippery kiss to the head of Buccellati’s cock.
“You’re so beautiful,” Buccellati breathes out.
Cheeks already flushed with arousal turn an even darker pink, and Abbacchio starts trailing his warm, suckling mouth down the length of Buccellati’s cock. He presses pliant kisses in at an angle, murmuring something into the skin that Buccellati doesn’t quite catch amidst his own gasps.
Wet heat latches on somewhere in the middle, Abbacchio sucking and nibbling and lavishing the spot with his tongue while he peers up at Buccellati with those captivating eyes.
“Fuck –” Buccellati’s hips shift under that mouth, one of Abbacchio’s hands massaging his balls while the other digs fingers into his inner thigh. Spikes of urgent heat rush low in his abdomen, cresting in a pleasant wave that builds and builds but doesn’t break. “Swallow me already –!”
With a rumbling groan, Abbacchio’s lips detach from Buccellati’s cock. His hand abandons its post on Buccellati’s thigh to shove between his own legs – and then he complies.
He sucks Buccellati in with care, the fingers of his free hand keeping the base steady while he guides Buccellati’s cock between his lips, staining it with more lipstick as it goes. The slick of his tongue drags along the underside and slips around the shaft as he takes it deeper and deeper until his throat is working around the head and his nose meets short, dark hair.
Here, he pauses.
Buccellati’s breath heaves, his toes curling and knees lifting. And he squirms when Abbacchio swallows – then pulls off slowly to suck Buccellati down again –
“Leone,” Buccellati whimpers, his hands busy tangling fresh knots into the pristine white of Abbacchio’s hair.
He’s trying to hold still. Doing his utmost. But that throat working around him, and the slick pressure of suction as Abbacchio finally starts to move…the coolness that hits when he pulls off, leaving Buccellati’s wet cock exposed to the air for a moment while he catches his breath before licking the tip and swallowing him anew –
Already on edge from all of Abbacchio’s earlier attentions, Buccellati can’t hold back the string of whining moans that leak out any more than he can stop his hips bucking.
Neither of Abbacchio’s hands makes any grab for Buccellati’s hips, one content to rest gentle high on a quivering thigh while the other is presumably still between his own legs. His jaw stays lax as he matches the rhythm of Buccellati’s stuttering hips as best he can, picking up the pace to do so and groaning, sending sparks to Buccellati’s core. Escalating the pleasure until all of Buccellati’s headspace is occupied by Leone.
“Mmh!” Spine taut, Buccellati cants his hips into that wet, eager mouth, and Abbacchio pauses at the base of his cock, swallowing twice before starting to pull off with renewed, slow care.
Buccellati’s entire body trembles, climax bubbling beneath his skin – but this time, Abbacchio lets his cock slip free completely, lips hovering just above the head, breath panting hot over it.
With a weak, wrought groan, Buccellati slumps back down into his seat. Blurry, blissed-out eyes focus on Abbacchio between his legs, and his cock twitches with want at the sight of him.
“Gonna come?” Abbacchio rumbles, as his tongue darts out to taste the pre-come that gathers at Buccellati’s tip.
“Yeah,” Buccellati huffs, even though it should be obvious.
He can’t look away from Leone.
Purple-gold eyes are overrun with the dark of Abbacchio’s pupils, his lips a swollen mess of smudged, shiny lipstick, cheeks flushed pleasantly red, eyebrows dipped in pleasure. His hair held back in Buccellati’s grip.
Between Abbacchio’s legs, his hand shifts, and his expression clouds for half a moment before steadying.
And Buccellati can’t pinpoint exactly when the thought hits or why it shows up now, only that it brings a fresh flush of heat through him and spills out of his mouth in a too-quick mumble. “Can I – can I come on your face?”
The response is an eager groan, Abbacchio trembling all over and sucking Buccellati down with renewed vigor – fuck – Buccellati’s whole body arches taut –
“Yes,” Abbacchio pops off to gasp out, licks over the tip of Buccellati’s cock, briefly sucking it in, “god, yes, but I still want to,” by way of an explanation, he takes Buccellati as deep as he can as fast as he can and Buccellati is gasping.
But he gets the message.
Abbacchio prefers to swallow – has a thing for it, definitely – Buccellati knows – and it’s hot as fuck, but –
The thought of marking Abbacchio up with more than the usual lipstick and love-bites is –
It does something to Buccellati. Sends ever more heat pooling in his gut, sped along by the warm presence of Abbacchio between his thighs. By a talented mouth working him with purpose and intent and holy shit.
He tightens his hold on Abbacchio’s hair as that tongue swirls over his tip. Abbacchio swallows him down, bobbing his head but not bothering to pull the whole way off anymore, mouth consistently full of Buccellati’s cock. He picks up the pace, sucks hard for a few pulls, and Buccellati shakes, stammering out Leone’s name on repeat.
Humming in response, Abbacchio prods a knuckle insistent below Buccellati’s balls, couples the motion with another twist of his tongue – and it’s enough to push Buccellati over the edge.
Abbacchio’s heady, trembling moan of encouragement sets off additional sparks in Buccellati’s stomach, as Abbacchio holds still and lets come paint the inside of his mouth. He pulls off after a second, replacing the suckling stimulation of his mouth with firm, thorough strokes of his hand.
Whimpering, Buccellati arches up into Abbacchio’s grip, hips stuttering and eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to watch but it’s too good and he’s left blissed-out and lax in his seat all too soon, trying to catch his breath as that slick, tight hand rubs out an aftershock that has Buccellati jolting in place before it releases him.
It takes him a moment to collect himself.
He can hear Abbacchio panting, can feel a hand resting light on his thigh, but he wants to see – that was the whole point of asking to –
Before his breath is fully caught he coaxes his eyes open, and picks his head up from where it fell back against the chair.
In his direct line of sight is Abbacchio, still sitting on his heels between Buccellati’s spread legs, with his pleasure-blown eyes fixed on Buccellati, and – and his face splattered with Buccellati’s come.
The sight has Buccellati’s still-hard cock twitching, a soft sound of want whimpering out of his throat. This is – it’s – he had no idea he was into – this. Had no idea the rush of pleasure just the sight of it would send shooting south.
Abbacchio seems to like it, too.
Because his mouth hangs open, milky white smeared over his lips with more pooled on his tongue inside. As Buccellati watches, Abbacchio swallows in a way that has to be deliberate – and then his tongue darts out, going for the stripe of come at the corner of his mouth –
And that’s all the staring that Buccellati can take.
He sits up. Leans forward until he’s close enough to lick up that same path, his tongue meeting Abbacchio’s in the middle and following it all the way back into his mouth. Buccellati seals those stained lips in a wet kiss that goes as deep as he dares – lots of tongue and come but it isn’t as gross as he feared because he tastes himself mixed with Leone.
A deep moan tumbles out of Abbacchio in response, and Buccellati swallows that down, too, echoing the sound with a soft noise of his own. “I love you,” he breathes as they part. Can’t resist pushing his tongue back in for seconds.
And Abbacchio whimpers against his mouth, one hand clutching at the back of Buccellati’s head to keep him close as he kisses back with fervor.
This time, when Buccellati pulls away – slowly letting his lips slide free from Abbacchio’s – he takes proper stock of Abbacchio’s face. There’s a line of come on his flushed cheek, right alongside his nose – so Buccellati aims for it, licking the spot clean before pressing his lips to it, savoring the quiet, comfortable sound Abbacchio lets out, along with the way he leans into the touch.
After one last nuzzle to Abbacchio’s cheek, Buccellati moves on to the stripe of come up the bridge of that strong nose. He kisses it off with a careful series of suckles.
Then comes the spatter on Abbacchio’s forehead, between his eyebrows, it steered miraculously clear of his eyes and hair. Buccellati brushes white strands out of the way, holding them there as he swipes this come up with his tongue, swallowing it down and giving this spot another gentle kiss.
The last of it is left on Abbacchio’s chin. Buccellati dips past swollen, quivering lips to clean this off, dropping a kiss to the corner of Abbacchio’s mouth when his work is finished.
There.
All clean.
And Buccellati’s heart is only pounding a little bit harder than usual.
Abbacchio’s eyes are overflowing with raw emotion when Buccellati pulls away enough to look into them. He wants to drown in their shine; to stare at them forever and pick out every color in the spectrum of their purple-gold shimmer. To kiss Abbacchio again and see if he can make those eyes sparkle.
But that pale face is thoroughly red, Abbacchio’s body trembling and his breath not fully caught, so Buccellati feels the need to check, cradling a strong jaw in his palms.
“All right?”
Abbacchio offers a short nod. “Yeah. Yeah it…felt better than I thought,” he mutters, eyelids settling low over eyes that dart off to the side before sliding back. For a second he hesitates, shifting in place. “Especially your cleanup.”
Oh. Buccellati’s stomach goes all free-fall and aroused and flooded with affection at that. He hums, aiming a lingering kiss at Abbacchio’s mouth, “Good.”
Wow – Abbacchio’s eyes really are sparkling after all, alight with fondness. “Glad you took a break?”
Lips tugging into a smile, Buccellati says, “I think I’m done for the night, actually.”
One elegant eyebrow lifts. As if Abbacchio didn’t know his plan would succeed. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Buccellati breathes. Keeping himself from being drawn into the pull of Abbacchio is hopeless, and he doesn’t really want to stay away anyway. His eyes are glued to that gentle, lust-blown gaze. Arousal pools fresh in the pit of his stomach.
The only real mess left on Abbacchio’s face is smudged makeup, the worst of which being that black lipstick, faded on his lips and spread over flushed skin. Buccellati rubs at those reddened, lipstick-smeared cheeks with his thumbs as his hands glide upward to brush through Abbacchio’s hair, tipping his head back.
When he leans down to kiss at Abbacchio’s neck, there’s a pulse kicking up a fuss under his lips. It redoubles when he sucks in a mouthful of skin, and Abbacchio gives a hitched whine at the pull of teeth working the spot.
He’s shifting in place, one of his hands grabbing at Buccellati’s undone suit jacket – while the other is still between his own legs, rubbing at the front of his pants with each forward swivel of his hips.
Fuck, that’s…
Buccellati lets the skin pop free of his mouth, pressing his lips gentle to the fresh mark before slipping out of his seat. He falls to kneeling face to face with Abbacchio, and wraps one arm around those broad shoulders. Uses his grip to help coax himself forward, squeezing between Abbacchio’s eagerly spreading thighs.
All the while Abbacchio leans closer until he’s meeting Buccellati in the middle, surging in to kiss him hard.
Thoroughly weak, Buccellati moans into the give of his mouth and melts against him, following the way that hand clutched in his opened shirt tugs him closer, closer, closer.
God, Leone is lovely – is perfect, sweet, endearing. Why did Buccellati hesitate walking away from work for this…?
His heart beating heavy with affection, Buccellati lets his free hand sneak downward, rubbing as it goes. It follows the tempting path of Abbacchio’s cleavage, fingertips brushing over the lacing and beyond, all the way down between his legs where he’s still fondling himself. Buccellati settles his palm atop Abbacchio’s knuckles –
Pushes against that straining cock –
Abbacchio breaks their kiss in favor of a sharp grunt, redoubles his grinding with a stuttered gasp. “Bruno,” he huffs, bucking into their joined hands, “fuck –”
Lips brushing the flushed red skin of Abbacchio’s cheek, Buccellati murmurs, “Let me, my love.”