They were still kissing against the doorway, Brett's back pressed to the cold wood, Lance's big body caging him in, when Brett felt it.
Not just Lance's mouth on his, hot and demanding, not just Lance's hand still cupping his breast through the black dress, reverent and shaking. Something else. Something hard and insistent pressing against his lower belly through the layers of Lance's overcoat and suit pants.
Brett gasped into the kiss and his hips jerked forward on instinct, his body responding before his brain could catch up, and that movement made his own body betray him in the most obvious way possible.
Because Lance felt it too.
Lance broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead dropping to Brett's shoulder, both of them panting hard, steam rising between them in the snowy Montana air. His hand was still on Brett's breast, his other arm still braced beside Brett's head on the doorframe.
For three heartbeats they just breathed.
Then Lance's eyes dropped. Down Brett's swollen nude lips, down his long throat, down the high neck of his black semi-sheer bodycon dress, over the swell of his D cup breasts, over his tiny cinched waist, and lower, to where the tight black fabric was stretched over his hips.
And Lance saw it.
The dress was bodycon, unforgiving, clinging to every curve Brett had starved and trained and drugged himself into creating. And right there, at the front, between his stockinged thighs, the fabric was tented, strained, an unmistakable hard outline pressing against the sheer black material.
Brett still had his man parts. Lance had instructed him to keep them on day one, back in the Whitefish apartment, and Brett had obeyed because it was part of the deal, part of the fantasy.
Now that obedience was on full, humiliating, perfect display.
"Oh," Lance breathed, his voice low and wrecked, his blue eyes wide and locked on that spot.
Brett's entire face, already flushed from kissing, went scarlet under his perfect smoky makeup. The maximum hormones made him feel everything ten times louder, the shame and the pride and the want all crashing together.
He tried to shift his hips back, to hide it, but the dress was too tight and the 140 mm platforms made him wobble, and the movement only rubbed him against the front of Lance's pants, where Lance was just as obviously, just as painfully aroused.
Brett felt it then, the thick hard ridge straining against Lance's suit pants, pressing into his soft belly through his dress, and his big blue eyes flew up to Lance's face.
"Oh my," Brett whispered, his perfect white veneers flashing as his lips parted in shock, his sharp canines catching the porch light.
They stared at each other, both breathing hard, both painfully hard, both caught.
Lance's hand was still on Brett's breast. Brett's hands were still fisted in Lance's overcoat. Their bodies were pressed together from chest to thigh, and there was no hiding what eleven weeks of waiting and wanting and transforming had done to both of them.
Lance laughed then, a short, stunned, completely undone sound, and dropped his forehead back to Brett's shoulder. "Jesus Christ, Brielle."
Brett's hormones surged and tears sprang to his eyes, humiliation and arousal tangling so tight he couldn't tell them apart. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his soft girl voice breaking. "I can't... the hormones... I can't control it..."
Lance lifted his head, his blue eyes dark and blazing, and cupped Brett's face again with both hands, forcing Brett to look at him. "Don't you dare apologize," he growled, his thumb stroking over Brett's swollen lower lip. "Do you have any idea how sexy you are right now?"
Brett whimpered, his hips jerking again involuntarily, rubbing his hardness against Lance's through the thin black dress, and Lance groaned low in his throat, his own arousal jerking in response against Brett's belly.
"Look at us," Lance whispered, his voice thick with lust and wonder, his eyes dropping again to where their bodies met, where both of them were straining against fabric. "Look what you do to me. Look what I do to you."
Brett looked down, at Lance's pants tented obscenely, at his own dress pulled tight over his own betraying body, and a sob of pure overwhelmed feeling broke out of his chest. He was a one hundred and twenty-nine pound goddess in black lace and six-inch heels, with D cup breasts and a hard-on in a dress, and the most powerful man he knew was just as hard for him.
It was the most erotic, most humiliating, most perfect moment of his life.
"I kept it for you," Brett whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks, ruining his perfect makeup. "Like you told me to."
Lance stared at him, at this beautiful, impossible creature trembling in his arms, and his propriety, his last shred of gentlemanly restraint, finally snapped completely.
"I know," Lance said hoarsely, and kissed him again, hard and deep and claiming, one hand sliding down from Brett's breast to his tiny waist to his hip, pulling their bodies flush together so Brett could feel every inch of Lance's obvious arousal grinding against him through their clothes. "And I'm never letting you get rid of it."…