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Summary
“Christ,” Chan says, tipping his head back until it hits the pillow propped beneath his shoulders.
“Three,” Minho counters, insouciant.
Chan gives a low, shaky groan, caught somewhere between laughter and frustration. Minho leans his head against the inside of Chan’s thigh and gazes up at the mess of him, the flushed-red swell of his cock, the way his pubic hair glistens with his own wetness and Minho’s spit. “That wasn’t a challenge.”
T gave Minho a refractory period. It did not do the same to Chan. At least one of them should get to experience the joys of an improbable number of orgasms, and it clearly isn't going to be Minho.