A nasty, stoned-and-drunk David and James on Vincent. Not non-con.
"You've met, right? James, Vince. Vince, Jimmy."
Two nods, one hesitant, one overextended. Sweet smoke in the air, too many open, empty bottles on the table. A plastic container with pills that looked tiny in the big fingers that passed them out.
"One for you. One for you. Two for me."
That smile on that face. Familiar and erotic. As friendly as the neighborhood paperboy and in the next second, as scary as any psychotic in a hospital. Seduction without even trying and suddenly the air in the dressing room seemed thick as molasses. Hard to breathe.
"I should go."
One of those huge hands covered a slim wrist. A lazy grin that could mean nothing ... or everything.
"You should stay."
The random drug swallowed, choked down with the brown burn of whiskey. Fingers creeping along his arm, dark eyes that didn't let him turn away. Press of heat from the other side and stroking touches that made everything harder.
Inhale. Exhale. Stand up, open the door. Leave the room ... so not happening.
Fumble at the waistband of his jeans and Vincent sprawled in the chair. An expression that neither man had ever seen before.
That could have been much longer.