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This’s what it’s like to be drunk, thinks Buster as he clicks the door open and Lincecum, towel around his neck, steps in front of him and stops inside the door. The big catcher's legs are wobbling and his skin’s burning; good thing the entryway’s dimly lit, cause he’s blushing like crazy and he has a massive boner.
Lincecum’s standing there facing him, with his hands on his hips. He's still got that huge grin on his face.
Lincecum’s pumped from his exercise; he must have done some lifting in there too. Looking at the broad heft of Tim’s shoulders, the curves of those hard pitching muscles, Buster feels like he's been punched.
- Oh my God, Timmy, says Buster, pulling him in and covering Lincecum’s mouth with his own.
The ace’s skin is salty with sweat, and his mouth tastes like metal, like grass, like summer. Tim’s tongue is a darting snake in Buster’s mouth and Buster finds himself seeking, following, that warm, wet sensation. Tim moans a little, his breath escaping into Buster’s mouth, and Buster feels his hard cock straining against his tight shorts.
The pitcher’s still shirtless, his skin slick with sweat from his workout. Buster runs his hands over his hard belly and his pecs. Tim’s nipples harden under his thumbs, and Tim shudders. He breaks the kiss and pulls back, his mouth half-open and his eyes half-closed, and leans his head back, breathing hard.
Tim's body feels wiry and firm under Buster’s hands, and Buster buries his face in Lincecum’s skin, sucking in breath after breath of his fragrant skin, the smell of sweat and effort and men. When he takes Tim’s high, firm ass in both hands and squeezes hard, the ace cries out, grinding against him so that Buster can feel Tim’s hard-on rubbing against his own. Tim’s glove hand slides down to stroke Buster’s erection, his fingers tickling rather than stroking as they get towards the sensitive head, leaving Posey breathless.
- Where’s your shower, says Lincecum, in Buster’s ear. - I’m pretty vile from my workout.
Buster groans. It’s like someone’s slammed on the brakes and he’s at terminal velocity, hurtling through the windshield. But he’s nothing if not polite, so he leads Lincecum down the dimly lit hall towards the bathroom. And then he stops.
- Wait, Buster says. - I don’t care. Now.
Tim reaches up with one hand and strokes Buster’s neck, his hand on Buster’s jaw, thumb on his temple. The feel of his roughened fingertips is deeply strange - and deeply arousing - to the young catcher.
They leave their shorts in the hallway. The bedroom’s only a few steps away, and they collapse onto the unmade bed, Tim on his back.
The courtyard lighting streaming through Buster’s bedroom window illuminates the contours of Lincecum’s body. Buster’s eyes and hands take in his slim hips and curvaceous ass, his broad shoulders, his flowing dark hair. Tim looks up at Buster, arches his back and strokes himself, his dark eyes narrowed with desire.
Buster’s hand joins Tim’s, and then he leans over and takes Timmy’s balls in his mouth, one at a time, breathing in his musky scent, feeling them tighten in his mouth. The ace is writhing with pleasure, both hands in Buster’s hair. Buster licks the shaft of his cock and takes the head in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the frenulum until Lincecum moans, and then he starts sucking, a rhythm like a slow blues line, starting and stopping when he feels Lincecum’s cock swell up to its full length and he tastes the saltiness of Tim’s pre-come.
Lincecum pulls Buster towards him so that he can get his hand on Buster’s erect cock, and as Buster gets him closer, closer, he matches the irregular rhythm of Buster’s mouth with his own hand, teasing, withholding, pleasuring in concert with him.
When Buster can’t hold out any longer, he screams and his cock explodes in Lincecum’s hand. When Lincecum sees the expression on his face, still working over his cock, Tim can’t help but come, shooting straight into Buster’s mouth.