WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

Lionel Luthor didn't think about sex while he was in business meetings. Focusing on a physical attribute of a lover or replaying a particular encounter in his head was not conducive to remaining one of the top five most powerful men in the world. He was in Zurich. On business. In a meeting with three bankers who controlled the fate of LuthorCorp's expansion into India. His attention was completely focused on the figures being tossed out by Luderig Powell.

Except for the errant thoughts of Whitney Fordman that kept quickstepping into his head and marching straight to his cock.

This was ludicrous. It was the end of July. He'd been fucking the beautiful football star for over three months, sometimes several times a week, occasionally several times a day. Judging by timetables of his previous relationships, he should have tired of the boy a month ago, and yet young Mr. Fordman showed no sign of relinquishing his hold on Lionel.

Except, of course, Whitney had no hold on him. Creating an incentive for the British Poet Laureate to cancel his commencement address at Kansas State had been purely a business decision; Lionel had paid for every penny of Whitney Fordman's education. No one save his mother had more of a right to watch him graduate than Lionel did. The fact that he had paid (quite dearly) for his own son's education and hadn't even remembered Lex's commencement until two days after the event was of little or no consequence. Whitney was... nothing. A toy. A living, breathing sex toy that had become a sexual obsession.

Only Lionel Luthor didn't have obsessions, sexual or otherwise. Ergo, Fordman meant nothing. But if he was nothing, why was Lionel's cock aching from the thought that it would be at least another 48 hours before he could get back on the LuthorCorp jet, return to Metropolis, and demand that Whitney make an immediate appearance in his apartment, where Lionel would strip him the moment he stepped off the elevator, spread-eagle him against the wall, wrap his arms around that magnificent chest and fuck him until--

"Shit!"

There was nothing quieter than a room full of stunned Swiss bankers. They were accustomed to working in polite silence, speaking only in hushed tones anyway. When shocked into silence, it was actually possible to hear a flea fart in the next room.

Lionel took hold of himself, but not the way he wanted to be taken hold of. Going on the attack to cover his unbelievable outburst, he briskly began shoving the papers in front of him into his briefcase. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but your proposal is unacceptable. We've done business — quite profitably — before, and I know you can do better than this." He tossed their deal memo onto the table, rose, and stood his leather briefcase on its brass feet, effectively covering the erection that had gotten him into this mess.

"Rethink those numbers and we'll start again in the morning, hopefully when you're ready to take this deal seriously!"

He swept out of the room and two stunned minions swept right behind him. A third stayed behind to collect all the documents that had been left on the table.

"Get Grace. Tell her I'll be waiting in the limo. And have the limo brought 'round," he barked to the men behind him. The bank had provided his staff with an office space from which to work during the negotiations, and Grace was keeping an eye on things back home. He wanted his messages. Now. There wouldn't be anything from Whitney, naturally. The young man knew better than to call any number but Lionel's private line, and then only in the event of an emergency.

But there could have been an emergency. And even if there wasn't, there were undoubtedly dozens of other messages that needed Lionel's attention. Problems. Deals on the precarious brink of collapse. Fortunes to be lost or made, all depending on his attention. But right now, what needed his attention most was his cock.

He issued a gruff order to the executive still trailing behind him and suddenly he was alone until he reached the elevator and one of his personal security guards assumed a subtle flanking position. Lionel barely noticed. He was too focused on the inconvenience of his thoughts about Whitney Fordman.

Obviously, Lionel was going to have to get laid tonight.

"Merde." He'd been hoping to avoid that while he was with Whitney. There was something he wanted that might go up in smoke if he stepped outside their relationship to relieve this ache. There was no verbal contract between them that made their arrangement exclusive, but Lionel hadn't been with anyone else since shortly after that first day with Whitney, and he was certain Whitney hadn't either. Reasonably certain, anyway. He wanted to keep it that way.

Lionel didn't believe in commitment, but he liked monogamous relationships. No, more accurately, he didn't believe in paying for sex and he liked knowing where his next fuck was coming from. He liked the dependability and the sense of power that came from having a lover at his beck and call.

But, of course, the longer a relationship lasted, the higher the expectations of his lover became, until demands were made that Lionel had no intention of meeting. That's why he kept relationships short and whenever possible, ended them in a friendly fashion, leaving open a door through which he could walk if he found himself between one of his loosely constructed but steady relationships.

Maybe that was why Whitney Fordman had lasted so long. In three months the only demand he'd ever made was for Lionel to vary the posture of their lovemaking. And the irony of the request was delicious, for not only had it been easy to grant, Lionel had actually been waiting for it! Taking Whitney from behind for all those weeks had been a well-thought out strategy designed to frustrate his lover. Lionel had wanted to see how much frustration Whit could take, but mostly he'd needed Whit to beg for something different so Lionel could magnanimously grant his request.

Only Lionel hadn't counted on his own frustration at the restrictions being posed on his creativity and his enjoyment of the broad range of sensual pleasures he wanted to open up to Whitney. Neither had he counted on being touched by his lover's eloquence. Whit hadn't begged, he'd asked...asked to be Lionel's partner instead of his puppet. Lionel had known all along that Whitney was intelligent and insightful, but he had never expected the young man to understand him so well — and accept him so easily in spite of his games and manipulations.

That made Whitney Fordman a pleasant convenience, certainly, but there were other conveniences, not as beautiful or satisfying as Whitney, but serviceable. At the present moment he had at least two former lovers in Zurich, either of whom would cancel any plans they had in order to enjoy an evening with Lionel Luthor. All it would take was a phone call.

His limo was waiting in front of the building when Lionel swept through the revolving door into the crisp, clean Swiss air. Lionel hurried to the limo. Less than three minutes later, his unflappable secretary joined him. The security man climbed into the front seat and they were off for the hotel. "Messages," he barked unnecessarily.

"Very little that you haven't been expecting," Grace replied, handing him a small stack of notes emblazoned with the LuthorCorp logo. "The most urgent is Henderson from Sylvania..." She rattled off a quick list of important calls as Lionel thumbed through the notes like a deck of cards.

"Oh, and there was a call from Harry Lessening. Mr. Fordman was absent from training camp this morning."

"What?" The other messages ceased to exist. "Why?"

"He received a call in the night, sir. Apparently his mother has had a stroke. He's gone to Smallville."

Whit felt as though he'd been run over by a bus in a Fellini movie. Everything was surreal. His mother had been fighting for her life all night long in intensive care while, outside, Whitney paced the corridors, greedily taking the ten minutes they allowed him every three hours, and fending off the happy, jovial well-wishes of everyone who hadn't yet had a chance to congratulate him for making it to the NFL.

He hated all hospitals on general principle, but this one was the worst. This was where his dad had died, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much the doctors tried to reassure him, he couldn't keep his mind from slipping to funeral arrangements — caskets, flower arrangements, pall bearers...

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Lionel here to hold him and say, "There, there, Whit. It'll be all right." Fuck the 'there, there.' Just hold him. For a second. Maybe two. Maybe forever. Shit. He was getting maudlin.

"Whitney! Oh, Whitney, honey, I've been wanting to see you, but not like this."

He looked up to find Martha Kent clad in a pink hospital-volunteer smock coming toward him, a welcome, compassionate smile on her face. "Hi, Mrs. Kent." He stood up and let her gather him in for a hug and was grateful for her warmth.

She let him go, patting his arms. "How's Ruth doing?"

Whit nodded. "Good. I mean, better. Better than it looked last night, anyway. Once they were positive they'd pinpointed the time of the stroke, they went ahead and gave her that medicine and she's started responding. They'll know more in a few hours, but they think she'll make a pretty good recovery. Very little paralysis."

"Oh, that's great news, honey. I'm so glad. Listen, Clark's home, helping with the farm for a few weeks. Why don't you go out and see him? Clear your head a little."

"Maybe I'll do that. It's three hours between visits — I've got the time."

"Good. I know he'll love seeing you. And Jonathan will, too. You're coming to supper tonight. I won't take no for an answer."

"Mrs. Kent—"

"Martha. You're coming to supper! We want to hear all about our hometown hero, and you don't need to be alone tonight."

"Thanks, Martha."

"Mr. Fordman? Whitney?" The clerk at the ICU desk — eighteen, blond, cute as a bug's ear and obviously smitten — waggled a telephone at him. "You have a call." She pointed to the desk phone by one of the empty banks of chairs. Ruth Fordman had been the only patient in the ICU since before Whitney arrived. "You can take it over there."

"Thanks. Excuse me, Martha."

"I'll see you tonight, honey," she said, the whisked off to do whatever volunteers did.

Whit stepped to the courtesy phone and bent to pick up the receiver. "Whitney Fordman."

"I just heard. How's your mother, Whit?"

Lionel's soft, gravelly voice took all the starch out of Whitney's legs and he folded into a chair as though being closer to the telephone would bring Lionel closer. "She's going to be okay. Thank you." He explained what had happened, how his mother had managed to call 911 when she started feeling funny; how she'd stroked out before the ambulance arrived... The whole depressing, distressing story came tumbling out, and then the good news that she might be okay. Or nearly okay.

"That was probably more information than you wanted," he said apologetically.

"Don't be silly. I asked because I wanted to know. What can I do to help you?"

"Are you still in Zurich?"

The implication was clear. Whit hadn't mean it to sound like an indictment, but it did. "Yes. I'll be here another two days at least. But there are things I can do from here. Specialists I can tap—"

"No, Lionel, really. Mom's in good hands. They may even move her out of ICU tonight or in the morning. No more doctors. But thank you."

"Whitney, there's nothing I could do even if I was there in the hospital with you. Not even hold your hand."

"There's a stairwell that leads to an emergency exit," Whit said, only half joking. "We could hide out in there." God, did he sound too needy? Pathetic?

"You'll be fine, Whitney. You're very strong. Just hang in there. When the mother of Emperor Claudius fell ill..."

Normally, Whitney loved the history lessons, but not today. In fact, he felt like crying all over again. He needed more than an object lesson. If Lionel couldn't hold him in person, he needed a verbal hug. He needed words that meant something, not platitudes. If he had dinner with the Kents he'd undoubtedly get two or three of those tonight from Jonathan Kent.

From his lover, he needed...more. It didn't come.

Whatever the object to the story was, Whit missed it and Lionel seemed to sense that. "I have to go now, Whit. I just left a meeting and I'm on my way to the hotel. I'll try to call you later, after dinner. Have you got the cell with you?"

"Yes." The "cell" was a practical present from Lionel, an ordinary-looking cell phone that encrypted their messages so that no one could eavesdrop with scanning devices. "I may be in and out of the hospital today. I'll keep the cell on when I'm not here. I'll be staying at Mom's tonight."

"I'll check in with you."

"Thank you for calling, Lionel. I know you're busy."

"Not too busy for you, Whit." The phone went dead.

It wasn't exactly, "I love you," but it was better than nothing.

The drive to the Kent Farm was familiar. Long, comforting, straight blacktops that seemed to tunnel endlessly through corn that was a high as the proverbial "elephant's eye." He cruised past the Grayson place, where a huge Deere combine was chomping through the stalks; turned onto County Road 675 just past the McKinney farm. Three miles, another turn, and he was under the Kent Farm arch that welcomed visitors down the gravel drive.

He pulled to a stop behind the family's beat-up pickup and stepped out of his own.

"Whitney? Hey!" Whit looked to his left and saw Clark Kent, all denim and familiar plaid, sprinting across the cow pasture, scattering heifers left and right.

Whit stepped to the wood rail fence, grinning. "Damn! If I could run that fast I'd be a wide-receiver in the NFL!"

Grinning ear to ear, Clark seemed to defy gravity as he executed a two-handed vault over the fence. "What? Being the best quarterback the NFL has seen since Joe Montana isn't good enough for you? You gotta play all the positions?" Clark teased.

"You know me. I love good positions." Whit stepped to his taller, broader-shouldered friend and found himself melting into a huge bear hug. "It's so good to see you."

"You too." They pulled back but Whit didn't quite let go. "Where's your Dad?"

"Combining the east field. Mom's at the hospital."

"Any chance Lex has spy cameras on you?"

Clark laughed. "I don't think so."

"Good." Whitney captured his friend's face in his hands and kissed him. Clark froze for an instant, then gave himself over to the kiss. No tongues, very little heat, just soft open mouths saying "hello, friend." When heat did finally creep into the kiss, Clark pulled away.

"Whit--"

"It's okay, Clark. You have this big red "S" on your chest that says 'Spoken For.' I just needed that. Been a really shitty day."

Clark leaned in and kissed him again, but it was Whit who pulled away quickly when he realized he had to get control of himself or he'd start to cry. Lionel's quote about self-pity flitted through his head, but he pushed it aside.

"I was really sorry to hear about your mom," Clark said. "How's she doing?"

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Whit went through the prognosis spiel.

"You need to talk about it or bullshit?" Clark asked.

"Oh, bullshit, please. Lots of it," he said with a laugh.

"Done." By unspoken mutual agreement, they stepped to the fence, climbed the rails and sat. Whit inquired about the six-week internship Clark had just completed a week ago at the Daily Planet. Clark asked about training camp and how the pros were treating the hotshot rookie. They traded emails with fair regularity, so there wasn't an extraordinary amount of catching up to do.

"You're kidding me? You're starting the scrimmage next Saturday night? Man, that's great!" Clark clapped Whit so vigorously that he almost went tumbling off the rail.

"Yeah. Brookline's feeling his age now that the Sharks have some fresh meat on the bench. He pushed himself too hard yesterday and got a pretty bad groin pull."

Clark was grinning ear to ear. "So out of stupidity he accomplishes what he most fears — you on the field instead of him."

"Yep."

"You're gonna knock 'em dead."

"I'm certainly going to try. I can score tickets for you and you dad if you'd like to come. Mom won't be using mine..."

"That would be great! Maybe we could hook up with Lex afterwards. He's not big on football."

Whit hesitated. "I don't know, Clark. I've done a pretty good job steering clear of Lex these last couple of years. I fly pretty low on the gaydar screen, but I've got a feeling that Lex could spot me a mile away."

"He would never tell," Clark said significantly.

"Oh yeah? He doesn't exactly approve of our friendship since that time I tagged you as the scarecrow and strung you up in Reilly's field — which I readily admit was not necessarily the smartest way to impress the hottest underclassman at Smallville High."

"If that was flirting, buddy, I hope your technique has improved since high school," Clark quipped. "I thought you hated me because of Lana."

"I hated you because you wanted Lana instead of me," Whitney countered. "There's a difference."

"A big one."

Whit shook his head, chuckling. "Poor Lana. Dating her was self-preservation and I really did love her as a friend, but I still feel guilty for using her like that — even making her commit to a long-distance relationship after I went off to K State so that I could have an excuse for not dating on campus. The picture of a prom queen in your gym locker door goes a long way toward cutting down on setups and speculation."

"Depends on the queen."

Whitney laughed out loud. "How's she doing? Lana, I mean. I never hear from her anymore."

"She's at Met U. Dating Pete Ross, actually."

"Good for her! She finally fell for someone who actually likes girls for something other than fashion tips."

Clark laughed. "You're horrible."

"I know. I know. I don't get to let the cat out of the bag very often." Whit kept his smile in place. "So how is Mr. Wonderful?"

"Wonderful."

"Is he taking your excursion here on the farm okay? I'm sure he didn't move back to Metropolis last year just so he could pine for you from afar."

"It's just two more weeks. But yeah... he hates me being here. He'd buy the whole damn crop if Dad would let him, just to get me back to the city."

"Must be nice to have someone so... possessive."

Clark slanted a speculative glance at him. "I thought you said you were seeing someone. Did I just dream that email?"

"No, I sent the email. It's just that he's not the possessive type. At least, I don't think he is. I haven't exactly made myself unavailable to him to test the hypothesis."

"How long has it been going on?"

"About three months. Give or take."

"Good guy?"

"I think so."

"How's the sex?"

Whit laughed again. "Amazing. Fucking amazing! And plentiful. Can you believe it, I'm almost 23 years old and this is the longest relationship I've ever had in my life. And the best."

Clark laughed, too. "Then he must be a cuddler."

Whitney's cheeks flushed pale pink. Clark was one of the few people in the world in a position to know what a sucker Whitney was for cuddling after sex. Two summers ago Lex had decided that the raging rumors about his relationship with Clark weren't doing either one of them any good. For "Clark's own good," he'd headed back to Metropolis, leaving Clark brokenhearted and convinced that their relationship was over. In the middle of the grieving and misery, Whit had come home for a few weeks before heading K State training camp.

They'd kind of found each other, enjoyed some incredible sex, and some even more incredible snuggling and cuddling and a closeness that Whit had never experienced before. But the relationship had been no big deal. Not for Clark anyway. For Whit it had been pretty big, and more than a little devastating when Lex had realized the inescapability of his feelings for Clark and strolled back into town to take what was his. Clark had gone running, no hesitation. Whit had supported his friend's decision, given him a hug and told him how happy he was for him. And then he'd gone on to training camp nursing a broken heart of his own.

Whit was pretty sure Clark didn't know that, and he hoped his friend never learned that he had invested too much in that brief interlude. As far as Whit knew, his beautiful summer-lover had never told Lex about them. For the sake of his longevity, he hoped he never did.

Whit was sorry to have to confess, "No, L--" A hair's breadth from saying Lionel's name, he managed to catch himself and cover. "Len's not a cuddler. In fact, he can be a little distant at times. Emotionally. What about Lex?" Whit asked, hoping to shift the conversation to Clark's favorite topic and get the spotlight off Lionel.

"Lex loves to cuddle, only he doesn't call it that. And considering who raised him, he's amazingly open and accessible. With me, anyway. That's all that counts."

Whit looked at some wispy clouds being torn apart by a quickening wind. "So Mr. Luthor...Lionel, wasn't a good dad?"

Clark's laugh was bitter. "Are you kidding? Cold, remote, inaccessible, unavailable, controlling, manipulative--shall I go on? Domineering, neglectful--"

"He's my boss, Clark," Whit said softly, sorry he'd asked. He focused on the roof line of the yellow house across the way. "He's been pretty good to me. Great scholarship... Incredible contract..."

"Oh, shit, Whitney. I'm sorry. I'm so used to thinking of Lionel in just one context. What he did for you... I know what a difference that's made in your life. There's obviously some good in the old coot somewhere. I just don't see it when it comes to Lex."

Whitney forced a smile and looked at his friend. "That's okay. I didn't mean to sound sensitive."

Clark clapped him on the shoulder. "You're being loyal to someone who's been good to you. Nothing wrong with that."

"Guess not." Whitney jumped off the fence and extended his hand. "Listen, Clark, I need to get back to the hospital. It'll be time for my ten minutes soon. I don't want to miss it."

"Can you come for supper tonight?"

"Your mom's already invited me. Tell her I'll be here after my six o'clock visit."

Whit's day had actually started about eleven the night before when the hospital had called about his mother. He'd scrambled out of bed, driven straight through to Smallville, and paced the hospital all night. By the time his three o'clock afternoon bedside vigil with his mother ended, he was totally whipped. He needed some sleep or he was going to drop.

His mother was being transferred out of ICU later, and she had asked him to bring her a few things from home, so he let himself in, found what she'd asked for, and then collapsed on the couch. He set his mental alarm clock for 5:30. An hour later, a strange, persistent tingling on the left side of his groin woke him up. It took several seconds for him to come awake enough to realize that it was his cell.

He glanced at the clock over the mantle as he dug the phone out of his pocket. "Hello?"

"Whit? How is your mother?"

Lionel again. Whit did some quick calculations. If it was 4:30 here, it was 11:30 PM in Zurich. Whit wondered if he'd gone out to dinner. And if he'd gone alone.

"She's doing well." He gave him a brief update. Just the fact that he'd bothered to call again as he'd promised made Whit feel terrible for being an ass to him when he'd called earlier. "I'm going to stay here overnight, then drive back to Metropolis in the morning. I should be able to make the afternoon practice without any problem."

"No, Whit."

Whit was confused. "Lionel, Mom's doing okay for now. I can come back and forth for a couple of days. But I'm starting the scrimmage this weekend and I can't miss those practices. Didn't you hear about Brookline?"

"I heard. But I won't have you driving back and forth from Metropolis, Whit. I've already called the office and talked to Lessening. The LuthorCorp helicopter is at your disposal and I want you to use it."

That was so thoughtful. Caring. Generous. "Lionel..."

"Don't argue with me, Whit. You can't spend six hours on the road to and from Metropolis and expect to be any shape to make a good showing on Saturday night against the Bears. I insist."

A thoughtful, caring, generous team owner. Oh well. "Thank you, Lionel."

"Where are you?"

"Mom's house. Picking up a couple of things she wanted at the hospital."

"Alone?"

Whit frowned. Lionel sounded...strange. "Yes."

Long pause.

"Lionel?"

The pause continued.

"I... I find myself in a unique position, Whitney. Under normal circumstances, I would call one of the acquaintances I have made here in Zurich. I feel quite certain that with very little trouble, I could find someone to meet my ...needs."

Jesus. He was talking about getting laid! Whitney bolted upright on the sofa and fought the need to grab the nearest Precious Moments knickknack and hurl it against wall. Christ! That son of a bitch was 3000 miles away, calling to ask Whitney's permission to fuck some pasty-faced Swiss banker or blond ski-bunny?

"Well, gee, Lionel. If you can find someone to meet those needs—"

"I don't want just anyone, Whit. I want you. Unfortunately, your ass is in Smallville and my cock is in Zurich."

The anger in Whitney's chest eased and he couldn't hold back a smile. "Thanks for the geography lesson."

"Are you fucking anyone else, Whitney?"

The question shocked him. Not that Lionel would asked it, but that he didn't know the answer without being told. "When would I have the time or the energy?

"Answer me." A harsh command.

"No, Lionel. Why would I possibly need to?

"Because you want things I can't give you."

And what things would those be, Whit wondered. Cuddling, emotional intimacy, his ass?

Whit wondered how much Lionel had had to drink. He'd never seen him drunk before, never even tipsy. He couldn't imagine Lionel Luthor surrendering control to anything — not even a bottle of Scotch in an empty Zurich hotel suite.

"I'm not suffering, Lionel."

Lionel's sardonic chuckle — the one Whit loved so much — bounced off a satellite overhead and warmed Whit inside and out. "I am. Suffering, I mean."

The admission was beyond amazing. This whole phone call was becoming beyond amazing. He grinned. "You ever heard of phone sex?"

There was a responding smile in Lionel's voice when he asked, "One of those tacky 900 numbers?"

"I was thinking more about my mouth, your cock, 3000 miles and a little imagination. It worked for me at that Interstate rest stop 4 years ago and all I had was my imagination. Are you in bed?"

"No."

"Get in bed."

"The sofa's closer."

"Fine. As long as you don't mind the cleaning bill."

Lionel chuckled again. "You're awfully sure of yourself."

"You're going to do all the work. I'm just going to provide a little incentive. What are you wearing?"

"Silk pajamas and a robe."

"The robe I gave you for your birthday?"

A long pause before an admission of guilt. "Yes."

An coincidence, or had he asked Woodhouse, his valet, to pack it specially? No time to speculate now. "Unbelt the robe. Unbutton the pajama top."

A pause. "Done."

"Are you hard?"

That sardonic chuckle again. "Exceedingly."

"You cock is tenting the silk of your pajamas, isn't it?"

"Of course."

"Touch yourself through the silk... Just the head. Gently. Is the silk getting wet?"

Whit could sense the sudden hesitance, the withdrawal as it finally caught up with Lionel that by taking orders in this fashion, he was surrendering control. "Whit..., this isn't--"

"It's broad daylight here, Lionel," Whit said softly. "I'm in my mother's livingroom where I watched TV with my folks. Did homework at Dad's desk in the corner. I'm on the sofa, Lionel, and my fly is unzipped and I'm so hard from imagining you there in that hotel room that I can hardly stand it. I can see you barechested, the robe and shirt hanging off one shoulder. Your cock straining against the silk stained with a dark circle of your first, sweet cum... If I were there, Lionel, I'd be sucking you. Tasting you through that silk. I've never done that before, but I want to. I will. I want to wet the silk with my mouth and suck hard on your dick until you're gasping and clawing the way you make me claw the sheets, Lionel, when you're sucking me."

"Jesus."

"No. Just Whit. Stroke yourself, Lionel. Take hold of your cock the way I would if I were there and stroke hard. Harder." He heard a soft grunt and knew, unbelievably, that Lionel was complying. The knowledge almost sent him spewing onto his mother's new slipcovers, but he could have cared less. Lionel was letting Whit fuck him. With words only, but it was a fuck nonetheless. The power of it was dizzying.

"Harder." He kept on, ignoring the persistent throbbing of his own cock, instructing, setting a pace and a rhythm that he could hear Lionel meeting. Before long, he had Lionel's hand underneath the pajamas, his fist wet with pre-cum as he stroked harder and faster, until finally Whit heard the soft, gruff explosion of his name and knew that Lionel had come.

"Whit..."

"Was I good?"

The sardonic chuckle, laced with just a hint of breathlessness. "The best imaginary blow-job I've ever had. Are you ready for your turn?"