Dom is fucking sick of lollipops. He's eaten so many godforsaken lollipops that he's surprised he hasn't started pissing fruit colors. Every fan he meets hands him a lollipop; at the end of conventions he ends up with sacks full of the damned things. He would donate them to charity but he suspects giving the homeless cavities isn't all that charitable. Which is why he usually ends up handing them off to Billy when they're together.

Billy doesn't mind them because he doesn't eat candy often—not a big fan of sugar. But sugar is not the taste that gets him when he curls the sticky lump of candy across Dom's mouth and then pops it into his own. It's the tang of Dom's mouth, that combination of cigarette, mouthwash, and salt-bitter that makes his cock hang hard and heavy in his jeans. He loves dragging the lolli's down Dom's tongue and then flicking it back into his own mouth, loves the way Dom's lips follow his.

And further, sticky stripes drawn down the meaty curve of Dom's neck, chased by Billy's point teeth, lapped up until all that's left are saliva-sweet, red marks.

Dom doesn't complain about lollipops, then.