hell in the concrete jungle
The first time Connor kisses another man, it isn’t a man at all.
Spike’s lips aren’t warm, exactly; yet they’re anything but cold. They’re langorous and dangerous, pink like jungle flowers, things that steam and sting.
The kiss burns through him, zinging down his spine to where his hands rest on Spike’s hips. Connor yanks their bodies together, hard, and the breath escapes his lungs in a huff of air. No air passes Spike’s lips.
Connor closes his eyes to the sun over his shoulder, to the moon that never sets. This trip to hell is better than his last.