Gabe’s hand slides up Hans’ arm, following the slim curves of it. His hand slips along his shoulder, moving to his throat, fingers closing around the end of the black satin ribbon tied there. He pulls on it, sliding the bow free. His mouth is against Hans’ jaw, pressing to it, sucking softly. His teeth graze against Hans’ skin at the corner of his jaw before his mouth moves down, moving to his newly-bared throat. He can feel the soft moan beneath his lips.

His hand slides down Hans’ back, sliding down over the full curve of his backside, fingers slipping into the remains of his torn back pocket. His hand squeezes softly and Hans laughs—a throaty little sound. Gabe’s teeth drag lightly against Hans’ throat and the laughter changes to something else.

Gabe whispers something against Hans’ ear, dark and sensual, shaped in Italian syllables. His body presses against his, guiding him backwards until the edge of the table touches the backs of his thighs. Gabe slides his hips between Hans’ thighs when Hans lifts up to sit on the edge of the table. His hips press close to his, rubbing, the sound of fabric brushing together mingling with Gabe’s soft whisper.