It was with considerable difficulty the two men dislodged themselves from the couch and mounted the stairs, compounded by Peter's insistence of keeping Ray welded to him. Their destination attained, Peter was quickly pushed into the rumpled bed.
"Mine." Sitting on the larger man's thighs, Ray looked at the pale plain spread before him, hemmed in on either side by the open shirt. Dragging spread fingers down Peter's chest, he conducted a thorough topographic survey.
"G-d, Ray!" Ray was leaning over him, playing with the wild curls hanging around Peter's ears. "Touch me." The only contact was the between their cloth encased thighs "Closer, please closer," and the maddening hands on his chest. Peter couldn't even formulate bringing his hands up, husking Ray from his shirt and smoothing the smaller man across his own chest. For the moment, he could only lightly tease at the backs of Ray's jean-covered knees. Ray traced along the contours of Peter's chest.
Long straight strokes from the solar plexus, tiny circles scattered over the stomach, terraces around the pectorals. From the center outwards. In towards the center. Contrasting spirals in and out. A sudden whisper across the nipples.
That Ray's shirt didn't suffer any popped buttons or ripped seams said more for the garment's construction than Peter's current manual dexterity. And its being loose enough to roll up over his head and off his arms still partially buttoned. A coherent Peter could have considered the sensations of Ray rubbed with or against the hair growth. Anything like thought was absent until the sudden contact of the two trapped groins. It seemed an eternity before he could get his brain online and sending instructions to his hand so he could free Ray and himself from the offending garments.