They didn’t have a chance to talk about it until the following day. Justin had to eat, and they fucked, and they showered, and they fucked again, and then Justin dropped unconscious across him for six straight hours.

Then he made Justin give him a massage with heated oil because as much as he hated to admit it, he’d reached the age where lying motionless for hours had become a hardship.

“Poor thing,” Justin told him, completely unsympathetic as he pounded on his aching back. “Lucky for you I’m as good at this as I am at rimming and blowjobs.”

“About that,” Brian said, glancing over his shoulder and groaning when his traitorous neck muscles objected. “How do you propose we settle this?”

Justin began mercilessly hammering at his shoulders. “With a contest,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Uh-huh,” Brian said. “This is just part of your scheme to get me to agree to a sex tape, isn’t it?”

Justin scoffed. “Like that would require a scheme. No. We’ll just set a stopwatch and see who can make the other come faster.”

Brian stared at him for a moment, and fell silent.

Justin endured the silence for about three minutes before dropping down beside him and resting a hand on Brian’s hip. “Okay,” he said. “I didn’t develop any super powers in New York. You’re going to have to tell me.”

Brian shrugged.

Justin gave him a good shake by the hip. “Every minute that you spend sulking is one more minute when I could be blowing you.”

He had a point.

“It’s just,” he began slowly, in his most off-hand tone of voice, “that you didn’t approve the last time I was involved in a sex-based competition. In fact, you left.”