EIGHT THIRTY PM, NIGHT OF THE GALA.

IN ONE OF THE INNER ROOMS OF THE VENUE.

“Why don’t you want to fuck me Miyamura?”. Sorahiko drapes himself across Miyamura like a sheet, while grinding down on his thigh.

His heavy breathing is all Miyamura can hear, coupled with the lust-heavy scent of his pheromones. 

Miyamura gulps. “I need you to calm down Sorahiko”. He keeps his hands by his sides, making sure he isn’t touching the omega currently dry-humping his thigh.

...