Misha’s thighs tremble beneath Jensen’s palms as he pushes them open. Sliding between Misha’s knees, Jensen bends to mouth at his cock, nose at Misha’s balls, breathing deep until he can practically taste Misha at the back of his throat.
“Jensen,” Misha says, voice rough and tired, rumbling up like thunder. “I know it’s difficult for you to keep your hands off me—fine paragon of a man that I am—but I don’t think I’m really up for—”
“Oh really?” Jensen looks up at him, eyebrow quirking, then back down at Misha’s cock, half-hard already. The flush already on Misha’s skin deepens, and Jensen grins, wants to follow it with his mouth. Later, maybe; he’s got more important things at hand.
“Anything athletic,” Misha finishes. “But by all means—” he waves a hand at Jensen, lying back so his head’s propped up “—if you want to do all the work, don’t let me stop you.”
Jensen smirks and leans in, licks a stripe up Misha’s cock. “You ran 80 kilome—”
“—83 kilometers. This is the least I can do.”
“The least, huh? Does that mean I shouldn’t be expecting a check signed Jensen Ack—Jesus Christ!”
Jensen sucks at the head of Misha’s cock, tongue flickering against it before he pulls back. He moves his hand up the shaft once, twice. “It’d be pretty impressive if Jesus Christ sent you a check. Think he’s a cheapskate?”
One of Misha’s hands finds Jensen’s shoulders, moves upward to fumble at Jensen’s hair. “Right now I don’t fucking care,” he says. “Suck my cock.”
“Pushy,” Jensen mumbles, but he grins and leans back in, licking at the line where his fingers wrap around the shaft, moving upward to lap at the head.