(Three months and three and a half weeks)
Pete couldn't take it any more. Jesus fucking Christ. It was getting harder and harder to control himself around his little, innocent boyfriend. Imagining those big blue eyes looking up at him while he-
shit.
And those perfect lips, curving wonderfully, so inviting and soft, Pete bet they'd feel good on-
fuck.
And that ass? It was so soft and round and holy shit made from the Gods, and Pete just wanted to fucking squeeze it-
cunt.
And that waist? His waist was so pale and thick, and his thighs, oh god his thighs, he just wanted to bury his face in Patrick's gorgeous thighs- and - and-
fuck, Patrick, fuck
And his voice? He was sure it would sound like a chorus of angels moaning Pete's name-
He couldn't even try stopping that thought.
Pete would just adore to hold him down, tell him what's what, really showing him to stop being such a damn tease, wiggling his ass in the air all the time, talking with that voice of his.
Jesus, fuck me,
It'd be his one day, all his, and Patrick would have to show off all the bruises to Joe and Andy, Pete would smack his ass and whisper, making him tell them what a slut he was and-
Fuck, Fuck, FUCK,
What a mess.
