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Summary
But his hindbrain takes over when he watches James chug white Gatorade, drops of it dribbling over his sharp jawline and down over his pecs. Quentin has imagined more than once being that drop of Gatorade. Or just—licking it off of him, sweet mixed with salty sweat, his tongue exploring the deep V that leads to the line of his cock.
Quentin guesses this is why people use the word ‘thirsty’ to describe the visceral sensation of lust. Because he actually wants to drink James. Every time he looks at James doing bro stuff—like just hanging on his fucking pull up bar, lifting weights in the hallway, folding his dumb basketball shorts—Quentin is parched.
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“It’s like you were living in a gay Budweiser commercial," Eliot says. "I call bullshit on this whole fucking thing. He absolutely did not pour water on his face or spill white Gatorade all over his abs.”
“It was his chest, but. Like, you met James that one time—he’s real. And it did happen.”
Series
- Part 1 of the Quames agenda