“Shh.”

The whisper tickles the edge of his ear, and Lance doesn’t need to turn his head to know it’s JC snugged in close behind him. He can smell his cologne, redolent of sandalwood; it makes him think somehow of the middle east, and sheiks, and harems filled not with nubile young girls, but with slim, sloe-eyed boys, bare brown skin glistening with fragrant oils.

Not that he’s spent much time thinking of things like that.

But he would know it was JC even if he hadn’t scented him; no one else would slide against him, would rub against his ass just so; he’d know the imperious nudge of that long, rigid dick anywhere. Never mind the long-fingered hand curving around his hip, possessively.

Lance tips his head slightly to the side and his hum is a question. “Shh,” JC says again, and his fingers tighten on his hip, pulling him a step back into the shadows of the balcony. One step, then another, and they disappear behind some moonflower vines. A huge white blossom brushes his cheek, and the fragrance, so close, is almost intoxicating.

They’re surrounded by big heart-shaped leaves and white fragrant flowers and near-darkness, and if it wasn’t for the muted sound of the party going on inside, the rectangle of golden light spilling outside onto the balcony, they could’ve been anywhere.

Maybe even in that sultan’s seraglio.

JC’s mouth is wet and hot on the side of his neck, and Lance’s mouth parts in a sigh. He shudders at the nip of teeth, a hotsweet burst of sudden pleasure.

“No marks,” he says softly, and JC’s laugh is low and reels him into a circle of secret sexual complicity.

“Not where anyone but me can see, anyway,” JC says, and undulates against him, his other hand sliding beneath his shirt, long fingers splaying against his belly. They feel cool against his suddenly-hot skin, and Lance shivers again.

“No one will,” Lance promises, and tips his head back onto JC’s shoulder, leaning into him, letting JC take his weight. JC, for all his leanness, is strong, and can hold him. JC’s forefinger traces around the dip of his navel, a light, teasing touch, and Lance wants more. “Please,” he whispers.

JC licks up the side of his neck, tongues the soft skin behind his ear. “Only me, right?”

“Only you,” Lance agrees quickly. It had been so hard to say that in the beginning; it is easier, now that he knows what he wants, what he needs. Changeable blue eyes, a lean, muscular body, long-fingered, clever hands—oh yes, he knows what he wants now, and knows what to say, what to do, to get it.

“Party’s boring,” JC whispers. “Boring people, boring drinks, boring drugs, boring everything. I don’t like being bored, Lance.” He licks down the length of Lance’s neck, noses aside the collar of his shirt, and bites again, a little harder, his mouth hot and sucking. Lance’s knees quiver, and he reaches up and back, his fingertips grazing over JC’s thick curly hair, over the nape of his neck, warm and sweaty from the summer heat.

He wants to turn, to nose aside JC’s hair, to lick the salty sweat from his neck, to taste flesh between his teeth, under his tongue. But he stays, because oh, JC’s fingers toy at the top edge of the waistband of his jeans. JC is skittish sometimes, and if Lance turns, if he makes demands, then JC is as likely to slide out from beneath his arms as he is to welcome Lance into his own.

So he stays still, waiting, because it’s always JC’s game, and he plays by the rules.

“What do you want?” Lance whispers.

“Entertain me,” JC whispers back. Sometimes he sounds so much like Chris that Lance has an urge to look, to see if it really is JC, but then, after so long together, they’ve picked up the quirks, the mannerisms, the tones of the others.

Lance starts to turn, but JC’s hand on his hip squeezes, warning him not to move, so he relaxes back. JC’s fingers slide upward, and his belly contracts at the contact. Upward, and Lance’s breath catches sharply in the back of his throat as they circle a nipple that rises into an achy little bead. JC doesn’t touch, doesn’t pinch, doesn’t give Lance the extra little sensation he wants, though. Lance licks his lips; the scent of moonflower is so strong he can almost taste it.

“What do you want?”

JC rolls his hips against his ass, and Lance can’t help but shimmy back against him. His own dick feels tight and hot and full beneath his jeans, the denim pulled taut against it, against his balls. Freeballin’, as Joey calls it. It feels wicked and perverse, though he’s done many, many things much more perverse than this.

“Here?”

“Mmm,” JC says against his throat, against the corner of his jaw. He bites again, and sensation streaks hotly through him, fire pooling in his dick, making it throb. If that doesn’t make a mark, Lance will be surprised, and he moves in protest; he has rules, just as JC does.

JC’s hand covers his crotch, cups his dick, and his protest stutters to a stop in his throat, and the tension of fight-or-flight swirls into a sexual fuck-me-now.

“Please,” he says softly, his hips rolling, pushing his dick into JC’s hand, then his ass back against JC’s dick. “No marks.”

JC’s fingers curl upward, his fingertip tapping on the metal button of Lance’s jeans. The nails of his other hand scratch across Lance’s chest, catch his nipple sharply, and Lance’s breath rushes out, breaking on a low moan.

“Be quiet,” JC whispers. “They’ll hear you.”

Lance bites his lower lip, and his fingers tighten a little on the back of JC’s neck. He isn’t sure what to do with his other hand; he needs to hold onto something, to ground himself, and his fingers catch in the trellis, crushing leaves and blossoms; the scent of them rises, sharp and green.

JC’s finger taps his button again, and pinches his nipple. Lance’s mouth feels dry. “Please, JC.”

“I like it when you sound like that,” JC says. “I like it better when you lose control, though. Calm and cool Lance Bass, begging to come as I fuck him. That’s the best of all, I think.”

“You’re a fucking control freak—“

JC flicks open the button, tugs a little at his zipper. Lance can feel JC’s lips curve into a little smile against his skin. “Pot, kettle. Better be nice or I won’t fuck you.”

Lance can feel anger gathering behind his teeth; he’d never let anyone besides JC say something like that to him and get away with it. But it is JC, so he does get away with that, and much more. And his anger slithers away when JC’s hand leaves his crotch, his palm warm on Lance’s cheek as he tips Lance’s face toward him to kiss.

JC’s mouth is wet and warm, and tastes of wine, deep and rich. It is all Lance can do not to turn, to offer his mouth, his body, everything. His head spins from the drinks he’s had during the course of the party, and from the sheer lust of letting JC do this. Kissing like this is awkward, but he doesn’t care; it makes him burn hotly, makes him moan into JC’s mouth. JC’s hand on his chest kneads, plucks a nipple until Lance shudders, until his whole body is one unending pleasepleasepleasefuck me.

Their mouths part with a wet sucking sound, and then JC’s hand leaves his face, smooths down his body, and unzips him, the sound partially muffled by the party, and by the rustling of the wind in the leaves.

“Please,” Lance says, his voice catching, and then JC slides his hand into his jeans and wraps his fingers around Lance’s dick, squeezing lightly.

And it’s perfect; JC knows just how much pressure feels good. He’s already wet, and JC slicks over the head of his dick as he gives his nipple a sharp tweak. Lance jumps so hard the trellis creaks in his grip, and his breath leaves him in an explosive sound.

“Quiet,” JC says again, and Lance knows it’s the last time he’ll say it; if he makes another sound, JC will stop and leave him like this, and that, oh, he can’t let that happen, not now. He nods, and swallows hard. Quiet, quiet, though every cell in his body wants to moan, because JC’s hand slowly pumping his dick feels so fucking good.

JC’s hand slides out from beneath his shirt, over his belly and upward, and the buttons give way; Lance only had four buttoned anyway. JC pulls back on it, and it slides down his shoulder and onto his arm; he can’t seem to turn loose of the trellis to let it slide further off. The leaves of the vine tickle across his chest and belly, and his nipples are hard, and ache fiercely. His dick in JC’s skillful hand is quickly becoming the center of his universe.

His jeans slide down over the curve of his ass, down his thighs, and for a second Lance wonders if JC wants him naked. He wonders if he would let JC strip him here. They’re in the shadows, away from the press of partygoers, but the risk of discovery still runs quick, chilly fingers down his spine.

And then that risk becomes more real; two people reel out onto the balcony, laughing and clutching one another. Lance stiffens, but JC’s hands tighten on his dick, on his balls, and he stills, hardly breathing. His dick throbs in JC’s grip, uncaring of discovery.

They’re drunk, and too wrapped up in one another to care to look into the shadows, to even care about anyone who might see them kissing and groping one another. The guy is a B-list TV actor, and the girl—Lance doesn’t recognize her, but she has enough hair for both Britney and Christina, and breasts that couldn’t possibly be real. Not that he’d be interested, in any instance.

JC’s hands move on him again, jacking him slowly, and Lance can’t resist moving, regardless of the risk. Lance’s eyes slide half-closed in pleasure, and his body, trained by years of dancing, falls into the rhythm JC sets.

“Look,” JC whispers, and his breath is hot against Lance’s ear. “He almost looks like Justin, doesn’t he?”

Lance opens his eyes again, and yeah, maybe; the broad shoulders, the close-cropped hair, the big hands might make him think of Justin, if he actually cared. The man kisses the woman again, sloppily, and then pushes her forward, onto the balcony rail before sweeping his hands under her skirt, pushing it up over her hips.

“Mmm,” JC hums into his ear. “Gonna fuck that pretty mama right there. Just like I’m gonna fuck you, pretty pretty boy.”

She has round hips, a pert ass, and laughs, wiggling it enticingly, uncaring of who might see. Lance can hear the man laugh, low and smutty, and then unzip his jeans.

JC’s hand leaves his balls, fingertips tapping at his lower lip, and Lance opens willingly, eagerly. They smell musky, taste like him, like precome and sweat, and he sucks on them, slicking over them with his tongue, scraping them lightly with his teeth. He wants them inside him, stroking deep, filling him up.

“Spread your legs, baby,” JC murmurs, and Lance does, as far as he can before they’re constricted by his jeans. His heart hammers hard in his chest and his belly tightens as he realizes that the girl has done it also, spreading her legs for the man. Lance gasps and rises up on his toes as JC slides his fingers in quickly. It’s only as the man tugs aside her tiny panties and pushes in that he realizes JC is choreographing this with their movements, and that’s strangely, oddly hot.

JC hums in his ear, stroking his dick with one hand, fucking him with the other, and it’s tight, it hurts so fucking good that Lance bucks hard, panting as his body finds the rhythm again. His fingers knot in JC’s hair, pulling, but JC doesn’t seem to mind.

“Oh fuck, oh please,” Lance gasps, as JC sets a pace mirroring the couple fucking in plain sight. He wants to go to hands and knees on the cold tiles of the balcony, wants JC’s dick inside him, wants to be fucked hard, wants to let go and moan and beg as loudly as he pleases. He wants to pull JC down, to throw a leg over him and sink down onto him, squeezing JC’s narrow hips between his thighs. He wants to unzip JC’s jeans and swallow him down until his nose is buried in fragrant kinky hair, pressed against JC’s belly.

Three fingers, and Lance moans aloud, but the couple is making enough noise to cover it. He screws himself down hard, and fireworks worthy of Pyro break across the insides of his eyelids as JC hits just the right spot. He can feel orgasm sparkling down his spine, gathering in his belly, in his low back, in his thighs as JC strokes his dick faster, firmer, just how he likes it.

In front of them, the guy is really pounding her, and it’s like porn, the way she’s carrying on. The guy’s not going to last longer, and neither is Lance, not with JC fucking and stroking him like this. He moans with each rasping breath, and his heart hammers, sending his blood pouring like liquid fire through his veins. It’s so fucking good, and the need to come rises up fiercely, but not until JC murmurs, “So fucking hot—come for me, baby,” can he let go.

And he does. He shudders and comes hard, his body arching in a tight bow away from JC’s, his come splattering on the leaves, on the balcony floor in long milky spurts.

Gasping, Lance sags against JC, drained. He forces his fingers off the trellis, out of JC’s hair, and if there’s a few curly strands of JC’s hair caught in his fingers, JC doesn’t complain. He gives Lance’s dick one final stripping stroke, then brings up his hand, wet and slick with come, for Lance to lick clean. Lance wraps his hand around JC’s wrist to hold it steady and licks, curling his tongue around JC’s long fingers, sliding over his palm, sucking on his thumb, until all he can taste is clean salty skin.

JC wraps that arm around his chest and then pulls his other fingers free, and Lance shudders against him, feeling achy and empty and wanting filled again; it was good, but not enough for him. An appetizer, just enough to whet his appetite for a full meal. JC presses his mouth against Lance’s neck, licking at the sweat there. Lance opens his eyes; the couple have separated, straightening their clothes, laughing drunkenly. Looking down, he can see his own body, half-naked and sheened with sweat, his chest flushed red, and most likely his throat and face, from the heat he feels there. He can see his come shining on the leaves, on the floor.

He half-turns, hobbled by his jeans around his knees, and sees JC pull back, snag a bandanna from his jeans pocket, and wipe his hands. When JC looks up, his eyes glint in the faint light and his wide mouth curves into a smile.

“I’m not bored now,” JC says.

Lance hitches up his jeans, tucks in his dick, still half-hard and sensitive, well aware of JC’s gaze on him. “I’ll be able to sleep tonight, knowing that,” Lance says, and zips up. He shrugs his shirt back up onto his shoulders; he feels chilled now that his sweat is drying. He wonders if he smells like sex, and decides that yeah, he does, and doesn’t really care. It’s late, and those inside don’t matter.

“I don’t think so,” JC drawls, and drops the bandanna to the floor. “I think you’ll be too busy to sleep at all tonight, man.” His hands, warm and strong, settle on Lance’s waist, pulling him closer. He leans in to mouth his throat, and Lance decides that maybe, not sleeping at all tonight sounds like a fucking great idea.