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It is frustrating, Reid thinks, that they all view him as some sort of asexual child. Not because Reid is asexual - which would be perfectly valid and he's certain they'd be accepting of - but because on some level they're uncomfortable with the idea of his sexuality.
Their misconception that his eidetic memory, lack of particular social grace or his more obsessive tendencies make him incapable or should make him incapable of getting hot and sweaty is mildly insulting, to say the least.
His hands are quick on the other man's shirt, and he unbuttons it quickly. He is impatient. He wants.
"Do you know why men's clothes have the buttons on the right, but clothes marketed to women have them on the left?" Reid asks, and he pushes the other's shirt from his shoulders, throwing it aside.
"No, pretty boy. Why don't you tell me?" He speaks with an accent, and the “r” in pretty is drawn out in a way that feeds the fire in Reid's belly. That particular lilt implies a first language of Portuguese rather than Spanish, but Reid is reasonably certain it would be impolite to ask for the other's mother tongue, and ruder still to inquire as to his country of origin.
Reid likes how Portuguese sounds. He hopes this man drops his English when he gets excited. That would be nice.
"Because until relatively recently women were helped with their clothing: the buttons were made for the comfort of the servant dressing her. Which I always thought was relatively bizarre," Reid unzips his trousers. His name is Feliz. Latin origin: lucky, happy, successful. "Given that many men of class would be dressed," Reid drops to his knees, and feels the rug of his bedroom floor through his slacks. "Or undressed," He looks up at the other man, his lips twitching. "By other people too."
"Is that so?" Reid enjoys the way the "s" exits the other's mouth. He pulls the other's pants and underwear down at once: Feliz' penis bobs for having been caught by the fabric. Reid likes penises, as a whole. He tilts his head for a moment, examining it with quick eyes.
Six and three quarter inches, thereabouts, with a three inch girth – significant. The man is uncircumcised, which Reid appreciates for the lack of genital trauma, and how it will be much easier to affect him to orgasm given the lack of scar tissue and loss of sensitive flesh. The brown skin is nice, and Reid appreciates the heady flush at his cockhead.
His frenulum draws Reid's interest, and he leads in, pressing his tongue to the delicate bundle of nerves: Feliz lets out a breathy huff of noise, and his eyes close: his hands ball into fists and press against his own hips.
“You can put your hands on me.” Reid says, and he looks up at the other man with what Morgan might call “doe eyes”, affecting a faux-innocent expression. Men like that. It's why they like him, many of them – they're fascinated by his youthful features and his slimness, the lack of muscle.
Reid feels he might be one of very few people who has little wish for power play mingled with his sexual encounters.
Feliz' left hand remains clasped at his own hip: his right curls in Reid's hair. They like Reid's hair – this is not the only reason he keeps it a little longer, but it is most certainly a contributing factor.
Reid looks to the other man's cock again, and he presses his mouth forwards, presses his lips to the shaft of it; when he inhales he can smell musk and sweat. He enjoys that smell, enjoys the warmth of the smooth flesh under his lips, and then he drags his tongue from the base of the other's dick up to the head, playing over the frenulum with his tongue again.
He continues, drags his lips down the side of the other's shaft, and then he puts his hands on the other's hips, kneeling up. Feliz' hand strokes over his scalp, thumbs through his hair, and it is a grounding force, pleasant and warm. Not that Reid needs grounding, of course.
He wraps his mouth around the other's head, hollows his cheeks, and sucks. Feliz groans, but he doesn't thrust forwards – he has more self-control than that, more patience. Reid bobs his head, moving slowly slowly down, relaxing the muscles in his throat and taking the length of it until he has it buried in his throat.
He basks in satisfaction for a moment, enjoying the weight of it in his mouth, the taste of salt with a hint of bitterness (this man does not eat enough fruit and Reid is reasonably certain he smokes, though the scent had not been obvious tonight), delighting in how warm it is.
Reid hums.
“Agh, lingua me-ai-” Oh, yes. Reid enjoys this. He begins to speed his motions up, and he continues to enjoy the hand in his hair, and when Feliz comes he lets out a host of Portuguese curses, endearments: a host of mingled words Spencer Reid does not understand, but enjoys the utterance of.
He stands, pulls the other's pants up with him, beginning to zip them back up.
“Let me-” Reid lets out a quiet groan as Feliz grabs at him through his trousers, and then Feliz flips him around, pulls him close so that Reid's back is pressed against the broadness of the other's chest, and his dominant hand undoes Reid's belt, undoing his pants before grabbing at Reid's cock. The left arm presses across Reid's body, holding him still, pinned in place against the other's body.
Reid moans, taking in short gasps as the other's hand jacks swiftly, bucking his hips, closing his eyes as tightly as he can. He focuses on sensation, the coolness of the room's air on his prick, the warmth of the other's hand, how broad and rough the hand is, how he can hear Feliz' breathing at his ear, feel its warmth on the back of his neck.
It is good.
Reid comes with a choked out gasp: no words. He can't manage words. He goes limp on the other man, leans heavily on him because Feliz lets him – Feliz is not only patient; he is careful, caring, even. He holds Reid close even whilst pulling him toward the bed, even while he pushes Reid into bed.
“Spencer.” Feliz purrs, drawing out the “c”, and he wipes his hand off on his own jeans before beginning to unbutton the other's shirt, beginning to undress him. Reid lets him, acts the rag doll partly because Feliz will delight in it, and partly because his knees go very weak post-orgasm and he's fairly certain trying to get up wouldn't work very well for him.
Feliz then slides into bed with him, after undressing them both, presses his body against Reid's: he likes that Reid is smaller than him, which is quite acceptable, because Reid appreciates his size. He moulds himself against the larger man, enjoys his warmth, his muscle.
Feliz nips at the back of his neck, and Reid arches, pressing into it.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Soon.” Reid murmurs. “You know, sleeping at ni-aigh-” Reid chokes on the words, and all the interesting facts melt into the background because Feliz is flicking and playing over his nipples. He has sensitive nipples, and this feels good.
“Are you sleeping?” Feliz repeats, and Reid takes the implicit meaning this time.
“No, not yet.” He bites out, and Feliz chuckles lowly.
“Good.” He pinches, and the pain is good, enjoyable. He arches into it readily, lets his spine curve away from the other man as he presses eagerly into the touch. This will be a long night, and Reid delights in that.