It started with the ice cream. They stopped to buy a couple of cones while searching for Lonnie and Patrick—chocolate for Quinn; vanilla for Cooper. Then they settled on a bench overlooking the water to wait. And sitting there, his thigh touching Cooper’s, their shoulders brushing, Quinn watched in absolute fascination as Cooper ate that vanilla cone in the lewdest, dirtiest, most scandalous manner possible. For Quinn, he might as well have been watching porn because he was about three seconds from coming by the time it was over. He was so distracted by watching Cooper tongue and suck at the top of his cone, he didn’t even notice that his own ice cream had started to melt and drip down his fist and onto his (thankfully dark-colored) cargo shorts. That is, not until Cooper himself pointed it out and proceeded to laugh his ass off while Quinn scrambled for napkins. He tossed the soggy remains of his cone into the garbage can next to the bench and scrubbed at the chocolaty mess on his shorts, cursing all the while.
Cooper eyed him in amusement the entire time, crunching idly on the last bit of his waffle cone, as if he hadn’t the vaguest idea why Quinn was so flustered. But just when Quinn thought he was finished cleaning up—well, as much as he could without a sink, anyway—Cooper gave him a sudden, serious look. “You missed a spot,” he said.
Quinn glanced down at his shorts. There was still a damp patch on the left leg, and little bits of napkin lint clung to the black material, but he didn’t see any obvious signs of ice cream.
“Not there.” Cooper’s fingers brushed a sticky spot on Quinn’s thumb. “Here.”
“Oh,” Quinn said dumbly. He couldn’t focus on anything but the feel of Cooper’s fingertips as they moved over his skin. He watched, completely entranced, as Cooper’s long fingers curled around his wrist, stared in breathless wonder as Cooper slowly brought his hand up to his lips, and choked out a moan when those lips parted and his thumb was engulfed by slick, wet heat.