Maxwell was a damn mess and the only person he could blame was Andrew. Well, maybe he had some role to play in this, but he was denying it.
All he did was put on a lacy set of lingerie he'd gotten. He hadn't done anything wrong.
What was wrong was the way that Andrew was looking at him and touching him. Why was it wrong? Maxwell couldn't think straight with the way the man's hands and lips were on him. The soft tongue, the opened mouth kisses, the little nibbles. Maxwell's body was tense, aching, and the flimsy little cloth that he had covering himself wasn't making anything easier.
Maxwell could barely form a cohesive thought as Andrew continued his way down his body. It was intentional, sweet, and made Maxwell's hips arch and wiggle. God, when the man kissed over his stomach and explained why he was doing what he was doing?
Maxwell wanted the man, then and there.
