Jesus Christ. Raylan sounds downright sinful moaning like that, and if Tim were less drunk, he'd be able to focus more on biting back his own noises so he could hear Raylan's better. But as it is, their moans linger together, and it might be the single hottest sound Tim has ever heard.

His skin aches sweetly where Raylan's teeth were. Not only will he be fending off nosy questions at work, but he knows he's also going to be making a concentrated effort to not get a boner every time the fabric of his clothes rubs against those beautiful marks Raylan has left behind.

At bare minimum it's going to keep things interesting for a few days.

Tim makes a soft disappointed noise in the back of his throat when Raylan leans back, and he can't even tell if it's more from the loss of sensation between his legs or the fact that his hands are now empty, however brief that may be. His hips lift to better assist getting his jeans tugged down, and he barely has time to settle again before that persuasive mouth is on his cock. And apparently, it's good for more than just talking himself out of trouble.

Tim's back arches reflexively off the couch, murmuring a wordless encouragement. Both hands drop, one coming to rest on Raylan's shoulder and the other sliding back into his hair, where he thinks he might keep it for as long as he can, somewhat obsessed with the feeling of the soft strands between his fingers.