tofi's trail

Bourbon wraps his arms around Gins neck, leaning down to press his nose through Gins hair to find his skin. Gins gaze remains locked on the newspaper in his hands, though his eyes stilled, not actually reading the words. "What do you think you're doing, Bourbon?"

Bourbon rubs his nose closer into Gins throat, draws deep breaths. Gin feels the vibrations from Bourbons voice as he replies, a smile in his voice, "You smell nice."

The answer, which really isn't an answer, makes Gin scoff. The paper between him fingers crinkle slightly. "Bourbon," Gin says only, a warning in his voice. He feels Bourbons lips press to his skin, feels his tongue slip against it, and Gin ignores the stirring in his crotch.

"Palate cleanser," Bourbon finally answer, his breath cooling the wet spot on Gins throat. Gin huffs. "Stop sleeping with that woman, then." Bourbon laughs. His voice sends reverberations through Gin, through his skin, through his spine, to his fingertips, his toes, his crotch. He feels his inside clench, both with disgust and with lust. "You're saying that? You do the same." Bourbons lips press tighter, and Gin almost, but not quite, winces as teeth bury in his skin. Its a hard bite, placed where the bruise would be hard to hide just by his turtleneck.

Gin closes the paper, starts to fold it down the middle, but he pause when he feels Bourbons gloved hand against his throat, pressing.

"Gin," Bourbon breathes, bite at his ear. There is a searing sensation, and Gin knows the brat has drawn blood. He says nothing about it though, only leans his head back against Bourbons shoulder when the pressure of his hand tightens.

It's hardly a threat, the pressure isn't tight enough for that, and Gin could swap their positions in an instant. Bourbon knows this, too.

But instead of pushing Bourbon off, Gin calmly releases the paper - it flutters to the floor, just beside the table. Gin raises a hand to grab at Bourbons hair, and though he too is wearing gloves, he knows that Bourbons hair is soft to the touch.

Just like his lips are soft to kiss.

Gins own kisses are harsh, demanding, a little sloppy due to a light dizzyness caused by the lack of proper, deep breaths.

Bourbon kisses him back, and they both retain firm grips of the other, Gin on Bourbons hair, Bourbon on Gins throat.

Through the gaps in the chairs back, Gin can feel that Bourbon is hard, his cock pressing between the chairs spines and into Gins. Gins own legs, previously crossed, have spread and his sex aches.

He growls, when he feels Bourbons grip loosen and the man pull back, and he yanks at his hair. "Where do you think you're going, you brat?"

He hears Bourbons smile, and he sees him flick his tongue down to his lips, red and swollen from the rough kiss.

"I was going to go home, but I guess I'm not allowed?"

"Leave now, and I *will* shoot you next time I see you. Finish what you started. You're a professional, aren't you?"

"Whore?"

"Sometimes."

Bourbon dips his face back down, giving Gin another kiss. A soft, slow one, that Gin would never confess to enjoying.

"Let me get more comfortable, Gin?"

Gin releases Bourbons hair, and Bourbon slips around, one hand sliding along Gins shoulder. Gin grunts in annoyance when Bourbon tips Gins hat backward, and it falls to the floor behind him. The newspaper crunches under Bourbons shoe.

Then Bourbon has slid onto the table, and he pulls Gin forward with his arms once more looped around his neck. His hands have found places below Gins scalp, and he's kissing Gin again.

Gin has to lean forward, and his position feels a little awkward. Bourbon doesn't care. Instead, he has moved one foot up, pulled it between Gins knees, and the sole of his shoe is pressing against Gins sex. "Bourbon," Gin warns. He feels Bourbons smirk against his lips. "You could always take care of it on your own," he says, easing up the pressure--the delicious pressure that floods Gins crotch with heat. "But," there is a notion of whispering darkness there, in his voice, in his eyes. It's like smoke in the night, dancing on a light breeze. A tone that makes Gins insides clench up in want, longing for something to lock inside of him. "You like when I do this. Don't you, Gin?"

"Watch your mouth, Bourbon, or what you'll be blowing won't be my cunt."

Bourbon hummed, a too friendly tune, before that darkness seeped back in. "That's what you say all the time, though." His kiss was harsh, then. Coupled with a hand snaking around Gins throat, another curling around his hair to put even pressure. His shoe rubs against Gins crotch, angles to press between Gins folds so they clench around the fabric of his trousers. "Hot," he hears Bourbon growl, sees where his gaze goes, down between Gins legs, and Gins hands have found Bourbons body too, squeezing tightly into his hips with pressure to leave large ugly bruises in his dark skin.

It's difficult to keep ones breath even when you have a hard time getting proper air, it's hard to keep focused with fuzzy edges around your vision, it's a challenge to not push Bourbon down on the table and climb on top of him to ride him and choke him until he passes out, when he aches and boils and burns.

When he feels his orgasm rise, about to take over his senses completely, Gin buries his teeth in Bourbons lip.

It's the taste of blood that draws him over the edge.