Spock snaps out of his daze and focuses in on McCoy, who is leveling him with a smug smirk and a cocked brow. He had been doing it again. Staring at the smooth juncture of McCoy’s neck with a hungry sort of longing. That delicious little dip right above his collarbone, just above where it curves out into his shoulder. The illogic of the oral fixation on it is not lost on Spock. And yet, he can’t find it within himself to care.
“My apologies, Leonard. I was… distracted.”
McCoy huffs out a laugh at that. A sweet, airy little thing. The sound of him is just as intoxicating as everything else. Spock had to take a calming breath just to focus. Tearing his eyes away from that innocent looking patch of skin takes a considerable amount of willpower.
“I’ll say. Y’look like you’re about ready to crawl out of your skin,” McCoy says, voice teasing and full of mirth. He’s right. Spock swallows thickly, takes another labored breath to center himself.
And everything goes right out the proverbial window when McCoy rears up on his knees and eases up onto the coffee table between them. Crawls right across the surface of it, on all fours, and doesn’t stop until he settles in Spock’s lap. Those sweet thighs bracket Spock’s hips and press in tight, holding on like a vice so he can’t escape. McCoy leans back, supporting himself with his elbows on the table’s surface. The look in his eyes is downright salacious.
It’s not a question so much as a statement of fact. Spock finds himself nodding and planting his hands on McCoy’s thin waist. His limbs are moving of their own accord. McCoy’s pull is gravitational and they both know it.
And then his head is tilting to the side, barring his neck to Spock’s eyes and he looks his fill. The skin stretches taut over bone and muscle. It looks delectable. Spock licks his lips absently as his eyes flicker between McCoy’s neck and his face.
Spock does not need to be told twice. He surges forward and fits his mouth around McCoy’s neck. He can feel the startled gasp bubble out of McCoy’s throat beneath his lips. The urgency was sorely underestimated. Spock sucks like his life depends on it, wanting to leave a mark. Many marks. His breath comes out in short pants and he drags his lips along McCoy’s skin to mottle another spot.
A warm tongue laves against a cord of muscle, coaxing it to relax. The sharp points of his canines tease the skin. It’s a subtle threat. A promise for more.
“Come on, Spock. Don’t tease.”
McCoy is gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are going white. And Spock has tried to reign in what remains of his control, but he is powerless against such a helpless plea. He presses his teeth into the hollow curve of McCoy’s flesh and bites down. Gently, at first. Just enough to coax the blood to the surface of his skin. Spock is content to suck at it, soothing the ache with his tongue while his thumbs rub circles into McCoy’s hips.
But McCoy is having none of it. “Harder. Do it harder.”
A quick glance tells Spock that the good doctor is just as hard as he is. At the back of his mind he fears he will reach his immanent end before he is able to render McCoy naked, but he can’t bring himself to care. He sinks his teeth in harder, pinching the skin firmly and holding it in his mouth to savor the flavor of McCoy on his tongue. It is delicious.
“Yes, fuck,” McCoy keens, tilting his head as much as he’s able. “Good, harder, bite me fucking harder.”
Strong fingers wind themselves through Spock’s hair and hold him in place, forcing his teeth further into pliant skin. Any self control Spock may have had is long gone by now. His eyes roll back into his head as he sucks, loving the sweet little gasps and cries McCoy makes when the line between pain and pleasure mixes too much.
But he knows this will not be enough. Shaking fingers make quick work of McCoy’s slacks and earn a grunt of appreciation as the pressure on his very hard cock eases slightly.
“You are beautiful like this,” Spock murmurs into damp skin. Then he’s fastening his mouth onto that delicate curve once more and sucking for all he’s worth.
“Touch me, Spock, please,” McCoy all but whines, body jerking in anticipation. He’s so very wound up. Just the way Spock likes him. Every press of teeth makes McCoy’s cock throb and pulse out a little more of that viscous fluid. Spock can feel it dirtying the front of his shirt, soaking through the fabric and making his skin sticky. He’s going to make McCoy come with nothing but his mouth on his neck to get off on.
When he’s marked up one side well and good, Spock sucks kisses along McCoy’s jaw and makes his way to the other beautifully unmarred column of flesh. And while he’s busily worrying the flesh between his teeth, McCoy is panting filthy little epithets into Spock’s ear. It’s almost too much to bear.
“Yes, good, so good, just like that. Fuck, that feels so good, Spock, so good. M’gonna come. Bite me harder. Wanna feel your teeth on my skin when I wake up in the morning. Wanna feel the indents when I touch my neck, when I’m working my shift. Wanna have to stop to jerk myself off because it hurts so good.”
The whole scenario is so gloriously depraved and unbelievably tempting that Spock’s jaw involuntarily jerks, forcing his teeth hard enough into McCoy’s skin to draw a few droplets of blood. McCoy shudders violently and spends himself all over Spock’s stomach, thoroughly soiling his uniform.
He slumps back against the coffee table, sweaty, sticky, and thoroughly sated. Spock realizes belatedly that he’s spilled in his slacks.
“Kinky bastard,” McCoy pants, lifting his hand to feel along his neck.
Spock simply smiles fondly and resolutely agrees.