This isn't what Richie expected to happen, except for the fact that it definitely is, like it's been inevitable ever since he crowded Carmy into the corner of the walk in and stuck his hand down the back of his pants to twist his fingers into those panties. Ever since he and Carmy jerked each other off that one time, and the time before that. Ever since that drunken, sloppy blowjob in the blurry months after Mickey died. Since, since, since. Since always.

Since forever.

He kisses Carmy back hard, gripping his shoulders, then his biceps, then just sort of clinging to him. He's rock hard in his jeans already, dick throbbing like a toothache. Thunder rumbles uneasily overhead; rain rattles against the window. Richie moans into Carmy's mouth.

"I think," he tries to get out. "I think." But he doesn't know what he thinks, except maybe he's going to cum in his pants if Carmy starts moving even an inch, he's so convinced that's going to happen that it makes him panicky and giddy at the same time.

"I wanna --" More kissing, he needs to never stop kissing Carmy. "I wanna fuck you again."