#nr16

It’s easy to lose himself in the beat of the music, in the dancing rays of club lights. Lewis’ sharp body shifts in and out of view, big hands swallowing hips and waists and his eyes never straying far from—

Nico can’t stop trying to sidle closer, knee-deep in wondering why he can’t stop watching Lewis back. He craves every glimpse after glimpse after glimpse. Preens under the unwavering attention, the expression he knows is reserved only for him.

It must be something in the air, maybe the alcohol or the crushing scent of sex or something darker, more dangerous, because Nico can’t—he can’t be in control, can’t truly be the one at the helm steering him into Lewis next, whose palms find the contours of his body with an ease that shouldn’t make heat simmer in his belly.

“Nico,” Lewis rasps. Again, more ragged: “Nico.”