Lance didn't let go of Brett's face.
His big warm hands were still cupping Brett's cheeks, his thumbs stroking slow under Brett's big blue eyes, careful not to smudge the smoky makeup. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under his overcoat, his blue eyes locked on Brett's mouth like he couldn't look away.
Brett could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the cold air still clinging to his coat mixing with his familiar cologne, and his entire hormone-fueled body lit up like a live wire.
He was twenty-one, one hundred and twenty-nine pounds, maximum estrogen running through his veins, wearing a black semi-sheer bodycon dress that showed every curve of his D cup breasts and twenty-three inch waist, black seamless stockings, and 140 mm patent Mary Jane platforms that put him almost eye to eye with Lance.
He should have been nervous. He should have been shy. Instead he felt powerful and reckless and achingly empty in a way only hormones could make you feel.
He leaned into Lance's hands just a fraction, his full nude lips parting, his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines catching the porch light.
"You gonna stand there holding my face all night, handsome?" Brett purred in his low alto, his voice thick with want. "Or are you gonna use that mouth for something?"
Lance's eyes flared dark and his hands tightened almost imperceptibly on Brett's jaw. "Brielle," he warned, but his voice was wrecked, not stern.
Brett smiled, slow and dangerous, and stepped closer, pressing his body, his soft breasts, his tiny corseted waist, against the front of Lance's overcoat. He felt Lance suck in a sharp breath.
"That's not my name when you text me at nine pm," Brett whispered, his hands coming up to rest lightly on Lance's chest, feeling his heart hammering like a drum under his palm. "Then I'm 'baby' and 'gorgeous' and 'I can't wait to see you.'"
Lance closed his eyes for a second like he was in physical pain. "That was different. You were... far away."
"I'm right here now," Brett breathed, and rose up on his towering platforms, bringing his mouth a breath away from Lance's. He could feel Lance's exhale on his lips. "Look at me, Lance."
Lance's eyes opened, dark and tortured. "I am looking. That's the problem."
Brett laughed, a soft, breathy sound that made his breasts rise against Lance's coat. "Poor baby. Is this hard for you? Seeing what your million dollars bought?"
He meant it as a tease, a throwback to their old guy banter, but the hormones turned it into something else, something low and seductive and needy. His body was screaming for touch, for validation, for Lance to finally see him as a woman and want him as one.
Lance's hands slid from Brett's face down to his shoulders, gripping hard like he was trying to hold him at arm's length and pull him closer at the same time. The battle was written all over his normally unshakable face, want and lust warring with propriety.
"Brett," Lance said, using the old name like an anchor, "we had a deal. You're my best friend. I paid you to do this. I can't just..."
"You can't just what?" Brett interrupted, his big blue eyes flashing, his sharp canines showing as his lips curled. He pressed harder against Lance, letting him feel the soft give of his breasts, the heat of his body through the thin black dress. "You can't just want me?"
Lance groaned low in his throat, his forehead dropping to touch Brett's, their noses brushing. "God help me, I want you so bad I can't see straight."
The confession hung in the cold night air between them, steaming.
Brett's knees actually weakened in his platforms, his hormones surging so hard he felt dizzy. He clutched at Lance's overcoat with both hands to stay upright, his long blonde hair falling forward around them like a curtain.
"Then why are you fighting it?" Brett whispered, his voice breaking with need, tears pricking his eyes from the sheer intensity of feeling everything at maximum dose. "I'm right here. I'm yours. You made me."
Lance's hands slid down Brett's back, over the semi-sheer fabric, feeling the zipper, feeling the heat of his skin underneath, and stopped at the small of his back, just above the curve of his ass, holding him like he might float away.
"Because I'm supposed to be a gentleman," Lance whispered against Brett's mouth, their lips almost touching, not quite. "Because you're... you were..."
"I was a boy you felt sorry for," Brett finished for him, his voice sharp and hurt and honest. "I'm not him anymore, Lance. Look at me."
He pulled back just enough to let Lance see all of him again, the goddess in black, the perfect makeup, the perfect hair, the perfect body he'd starved and trained and drugged himself into becoming.
"I'm Brielle," Brett said, and his voice shook with hormones and power and lust. "And I want you to kiss me like I'm not your best friend. Kiss me like I'm the sexiest woman you've ever seen."
Lance stared at him, at her, his chest heaving, his hands shaking where they held her waist, his propriety losing the battle by the second.
"Oh my," Brett breathed, watching Lance come undone in real time, watching the most confident man he knew fall apart for him. "You're actually going to make me beg, aren't you?"
Lance didn't answer with words. He answered by finally, finally closing that last inch, his mouth crashing into Brett's in a kiss that was eleven weeks of waiting and wanting and wondering, a kiss that tasted like snow and whiskey and want.
Brett gasped into his mouth, his perfect teeth clicking against Lance's, his sharp canines catching Lance's lower lip, and he melted into the kiss, into the man who made him, his hands fisting in Lance's overcoat, his body arching up on his impossible heels, giving tongue exactly the way Matteo taught him, taking and giving like a woman should.
It was a hormone-fueled battle and in that moment, lust won.…