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“How’d I measure up?" Dylan sounded almost nervous. “The real thing usually isn’t as good as a fantasy.”

Henri took his time tracing every inch of him that he could see, letting his mind picture the rest. “Not as good,” he agreed and saw Dylan tense. “Sometimes it’s much, much better. You are much better than any fantasy, Dylan.”

Then, in French, he added, “I’m glad I didn’t have you then. It would’ve been a waste for both of us.” It was cheating, but he didn’t care.

Dylan's reaction was stolen away as he turned to bury his face in a coral pink pillow. “I wish you were here,” he whined. “Fuck. Hen, you’re killing me. So full of shit, lying like that.”

“I would never.” Henri liked to keep his cards close to his chest and he might omit things to save himself later heartache, but he would never lie about something like how sexy Dylan was, least of all to Dylan himself. “Take off your shirt. Let me see.”

“After you just got an eyeful of when I was forty pounds lighter. Not fair.” Despite the grumbling, he propped up the phone and did as he was told. Henri watched and did the same, mirroring the desperate way Dylan pulled off the poor cotton tee and threw it aside like it was personally responsible for him being ten years older.

“You look better now,” Henri assured him. Maybe if he said it enough, Dylan might start believing him.

“Sure.”

Henri frowned. “Dylan. It’s true.”

Dylan waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I know what I look like.”

Do you really? Henri wondered. Did you never catch me staring before?

“Why did you want to video chat, Monsieur Everett?” He held the phone back as far as he could to expose his now bare-chest and the bulge in his pants. He ran his free hand along his clothed cock and thrilled when Dylan immediately tracked the movement.

“Because I missed you,” Dylan said. Then he buried a face in his hand. “Fuck, you’re trying to be sexy and I’m being…not.”

“Easy to fix. Touch your dick and let me see. I’m begging, Dylan,” he pleaded. “We have an hour and won’t get to see each other for four more days.”

“That Sports Illustrated photoshoot got you riled up, huh?”

“Dylan.”

“All right, all right. Bossy.” Dylan tilted his phone and, ah, yes, finally. There was Dylan’s right hand, dipping into his sweats and stroking himself slowly.

“Already so hard?”

“You spoke French, Henri. You spoke French to me seconds ago with your beautiful voice, and I’m supposed to not be hard?” He wiggled his sweatpants lower, revealing navy boxers. The tip of his dick poked out, his hand still stroking himself languidly beneath.

“You’re so easy. I could count to ten, and you’d come,” he purred in French. “I could tell you anything and you’d writhe just because I said it.”

“Yes,” Dylan said, though it was clear he had no idea what Henri had said. “More of that.”

“Then show me more of your dick.”

“Greedy.” But he pulled down his underwear and openly stroked himself while staring at Henri with such open want. “Talk. And take off your clothes.”

“Who’s the greedy one, hmm?” Henri switched back to French. “You’re so needy. How could anyone ever let you go once they had you?”

Dylan gripped himself tighter, stroking himself harder as he arched off his bed. It was a wonder his phone didn’t topple over, a miracle Henri could see all of this gloriousness.

“God,” Dylan moaned so loudly Henri blushed. “I want you here. Want to pin you down and suck you off while you just fucking talk.”

“Always want your mouth on me,” Henri said in awe. Then, because he felt the thought needed to be understood, sensed there was something more to it, he repeated in English, “Always your mouth.”

Dylan looked at him with hooded eyes. His hand didn’t slow, the other cupping his balls. “What’s wrong with my mouth?”

“Absolutely nothing. It’s a very good mouth. Kissable lips. A talented tongue. An unrivaled ability to deep-throat.”

“Jesus, Hen.” Dylan pressed his eyes shut, as if seeing Henri while he said any of these things might kill him.