Chris walked out of the ensuite, and stopped dead, staring.
Lance, naked on the vast expanse of the dark red-covered double bed. His legs were spread wide, the taut plane of his stomach gilded by the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp. He had one hand around his splendid cock, pumping it slowly; the hard flesh glistened in the lamplight where Lance's lubed fingers had slickened it. Lance's other hand was in his mouth, two fingers stroking in and out, and his lips and tongue worked at them, and his eyes were wide and bright and looking right back at Chris, and Chris was so hard in his jeans that he wasn't sure he could walk.
Fuck, he was beautiful. This wasn't the boy, the pale, adorable, forbidden kid who'd been splayed out for his gaze all those years ago. That Lance was gone, except from Chris's fantasies, but this Lance, muscled and sleek and self-confident, this Lance was here, and now, and his, and this was going to play out just right, just fucking perfect.
He swallowed hard, needing not to croak out his words, needing to sound authoritative and in control.
"You want some help with that?"