Splashing? The fuck? Orlando stepped out on the porch, immediately started shivering as the wind whipped under his t-shirt. Who the fuck was using the Jacuzzi in this weather and...oh. Oh. Fuck. He wasn't staring, he wasn't staring, he wasn't -- oh, the fuck he wasn't staring. This should be illegal. No one -- not even Harry -- and especially not Harry and Lawrence (lucky bastard) -- should look that good wet. Most people looked horrible wet. Like, um, prunes. Or drowned rats. Or something equally unappetizing. Except this wasn't. Unappetizing, that is. Not in the least. Orlando ducked underneath the porch railing -- not that it was going to hide him much, mind, since the slats all had a foot of space between them -- and simply stared. Stared, fell into staring, became one with the staring. Cause, um. Dear God, who wouldn't lose themselves staring? Didn't feel the bite in the air, the wind whipping around him like a banshee. Just crouched there, trembling -- part envy, part desire -- and watched the beauty of the scene unfold. Harry and Lawrence continued wetly sliding over/around/into each other, pink tongues darting out of each other's mouths, seemingly oblivious to the cold breeze. And Orlando. Which was, um, like, a good thing. A very good thing. If they noticed him, they might stop. And that would be a very bad thing. If Orlando couldn't have Harry -- and why the fuck would Harry even want him, anyway, when he had tall, dark, and utterly devastating right in front of him, damp and glistening and oh so fuckable -- then at least he could watch Harry. Watch Lawrence run his tongue along Harry's collarbone, watch the play of muscle in Harry's forearms as he cradled the back of Lawrence's head. Watch strong fingers as they sank into the mass of Lawrence's hair. Watch the rise and fall of Harry's chest -- nicely defined, not overtly built, sprinkled with salt and pepper hairs. A man's chest -- and thought about what it would be like to be the one licking the small droplets of water off of Harry's nipples. So fucking unfair. Orlando sighed and glanced down at his hands, curled into tight fists. Just one taste; was that too much to ask? Right. Definitely needed another drink. Orlando stood and turned -- and collided with a very broad, very dark, very solid chest. Um. "Enjoying yourself?" Orlando looked up -- and up -- into dark brown, smiling eyes and gulped. "Lawrence," he squeaked (yeah, definitely a squeak). "I was just, um." "Taking a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air?" "Something like that." Lame, fuck, he was lame. And he got the very distinct impression that Lawrence was laughing at him. Salt in the old wound. Lovely. "Think I'll just...um...go in." Away from the broad chest on display in front of him. Away from eyes that saw too much. Lawrence stepped closer, trailing a hand along Orlando's forearm. Funny that the cold didn't make his skin pucker, but Lawrence's touch did. "Why don't you stay? Join us?" "J-join you?" Definitely not breathing. Like anyone could breathe when confronted with all that , um, skin. Yes. And muscle. And, um, stuff. And, oh fuck, oh Christ, hand on his crotch, hand on... "Yeah," Lawrence murmured, sliding his hand up. "Join us." "Um, y-you mean..." Orlando groaned on the next downstroke, tried to catch his breath. No, they weren't Harry's hands, but fuck. "Join?" Lawrence laughter was sibilant, heavy in Orlando's ear. "Yeah, we mean join. If you think you're up to it." Up to...Christ. If Orlando were any more up he wouldn't have blood elsewhere. "I've seen the way you look at him," Lawrence continued, tightening his hold. "I--" Coherency. Dear God, some coherency would be nice. "I -- I don't--" "It's alright," Lawrence whispered, turning Orlando's head. "He wants you, too." He did? Harry was leaning back in the hot tub, still glistening and gorgeous and perfect and all of those other things that had Orlando hard and hurting. And those gorgeous golden eyes were focused dead on Orlando, intent and unwavering. "Go to him." Lawrence's voice in his ear, solid chest pressing into his back. "Bu, um, what about...?" "Don't think." Lawrence placed his hand on the small of Orlando's back and pushed forward. "Just go with it." Just go with it. Right. Good advice. Orlando shuffled forward, eyes still locked with Harry's, incapable of even thinking of looking away. Not that he wanted to. There were certainly far worse things to look at than Harry's naked chest and broad shoulders. Certainly worse sights than the hot look in amber eyes. "Took you long enough," Harry remarked when Orlando was in earshot. "Um..." "Relax," Harry murmured, rising like some ancient god out of the tub. Water clung in droplets to his shoulders and chest. His hands were warm, damp, as he reached up, water sluicing around him, and peeled Orlando's shirt off so quickly it was a bit like magic. Then again, the entire evening had become surreal to the extreme. Orlando shivered as cool night air hit his skin, inhaled, practically tasting the bite in the breeze, the heavy scent of beer and pizza -- pepperoni and beef -- coming from the house. "Come in." Orlando bit his lower lip, hands paused at his belt buckle. "Harry, are you --?" Harry's smile promised everything Orlando had ever wanted.
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