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Fucking incredible, thinks Dom, and shifts his hips forward. Oh, warm palm. Fingertips shove low down into his pelvis. He fails to stifle a groan.
Dom can see Elijah's delighted grin even with his eyes closed.
He wants to crane upwards, kiss that grin into some less maddening expression, but this is all he's allowed for now. Four months of flirting and sparring and playing the good sport through hours of makeup and chilly New Zealand fall-or spring, or whatever you call September through December on the wrong side of the Equator -- has only gotten him so far. Just the hand.
It's enough. It's a gift. Short-bitten fingernails conveniently out of the way, hand slippery and tight and just what he needs. Dom's voice cracks when he comes. He wonders if anyone's heard him.
Dom doesn't want to open his eyes, but eventually he has to; he can't find the Kleenex just by groping. He cleans himself slowly, cursing quietly when the tissue snags on his hangnail. He's got to stop chewing his nails-must've picked up the habit from watching Elijah so intently for so long.
He's dribbled onto his sheets -- lovely. It wouldn't be a problem in his new beach house near Wellington, but in his parents' flat . . . no. Dom crumples up the sheets, hiding the goo in the innocent stripey pattern. He'll slip them into the laundry later, while his mum is tending to the holiday goose and dressing.
Dom unsticks his hand from the bundle of linens with a grimace. Merry Christmas, Dom, he thinks, and stuffs them under the bed with the dust bunnies.