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"What— what do you see?"
"I see," Eddie says, measured, careful, "someone who looks like he wanted somebody to see him like that."
Buck's whole body goes hot.
"And I'm trying to decide," Eddie continues, slower now, his breath heavier, "whether I'm allowed to be that somebody."
The hand on Buck's thigh has migrated upward. He notices it three seconds after it happens, his palm now resting flat against his own stomach where his shirt has rucked up, fingers splayed across the skin. The touch of his own hand on his own body in this context is sending a current up his spine that he is, evidently, helpless to stop.
"Eddie." Buck's voice cracks. "Are you— are you jerking off to my photo?"
The pause is brief but loaded, and when Eddie answers it’s barely recognizable, every word landing somewhere in the south of Buck's body with a measurable physical impact.
"You send me a picture like that, Buck. What am I supposed to do?"
Or,
Buck wins a boudoir photoshoot giveaway. Eddie reaps the benefits.Or,
Buck accidentally sends his nudes to Eddie. -
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