training wheels
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Summary
Ryan kicks off his shoes and then he’s crowding Naim against the couch, lips burning like sun-soaked December. He kisses the slope of his jaw, his cheek, the side of his mouth. Naim is breathless trying to keep up. He tangles his fingers in Ryan’s hair and tugs—anything to slow the love spilling out of his mouth.
“Ryan—” Naim can only breathe and moan into Ryan’s mouth, pressing their bruised lips together over and over and over. He curls one hand around Ryan’s left bicep and he twitches in his pants. He’d be a lot more embarrassed if this didn’t happen every day.
When Ryan finally pulls away, their lips are still centimeters apart. He smiles, soft and pretty and unbearably fond. “You hungry?” He asks.
Naim nods. Fucking starving.
(ryan, naim, and their flat in paris.)
Series
- Part 1 of training wheels