That he manages to do any of them is a miracle. "Jen...Jen..." he mumbles, or tries to, between kisses that melt his brain and good Lord have mercy, who'd taught Jensen how to curl his tongue like that? "Shut up, J," and Jensen slams Jared against the door for emphasis, nimble fingers sliding under the waistband of Jared's gym shorts, over sensitive skin, and finallyYESfinally closing around his cock. Really, who needs to talk. Jared moans, surges forward into the hard slide of Jensen's fist. His hand catches, fumbles with Jensen's zipper before yanking it down, the sound harsh, metallic. Jensen's tongue slides over his again, darting in, then retreating, and Jared can taste the faint tart remnants of orange juice. Jensen presses in, chin angling to seek more of Jared's mouth, and Jared closes his fingers around the slick heat of Jensen's cock. Yeah...yeah...like that Jared does his best to match Jensen's pace, but he feels like he stepped into the room about four plays behind. Not that he's complaining (at all), since Jensen's still kissing him, all messy and uncoordinated and raw, and pressing against him in one long, muscled line of heat. And fuckityfuck but Jensen knows how to use his hands. Jared's hips buck reflexively into Jensen's fist, and he corkscrews his hand down tight over Jensen's cock, showing off a little trick of his own.
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