Well, it's -- Quentin. [Koby had, in fact, been fully ready to make a list, because he loves a list, but then there's the hot swipe of tongue at his elbow, half-tickling, half-teasing, and the sentence breaks off in the laughing exclamation of the other man's name. And then Koby's too busy laughing and blushing to remember what he'd been about to say, tilting his head to give better access to his neck.]
I guess i-if that's an order... [Stammered, shuddery breaths, pitching into a higher, pleading whine when Quentin moves away, because every tease of his lips, tickle of his teeth is devastating, and Koby can feel his heart pulsing between his legs, cunt throbbing like a bruise and he doesn't want to go too fast, because of course he's still going to worry, albeit less intensely. But he's also rapidly moving from want to need, especially when Quentin drags him along the swelling length of his cock, slipping thick and hard so close that it gets a huffy, impatient sound.
One arm's made it's way around Quentin's neck, tangling in his hair, like Koby needs to hold on for stability, fingers tightening every time their hips shift, every time there's that maddening, too-slow friction. He's being asked a question and -- honestly how can Quentin still speak in that smooth, lilting, effortless way, half sailor, half poet, when Koby feels like he's going to die if he doesn't get something inside him right now?
But right, question -- hazy-eyed, it takes Koby a moment to focus, breath coming shaky from kiss-swollen, parted lips. He nods, trying to think about anything besides Quentin's cock against his ass, Quentin's mouth seared over his collarbone, his chest, his peaked, pointed nipple. It's not at all successful, evident in the way Koby whines open-mouthed, desperate, blunt nails against the back of Quentin's neck, urging him closer, sparks of sensitivity jolting down his spine, hitching his hips so he can rut against Qunetin's hard length, nudge it between spread thighs, spread folds.]
Y-Yeah, yes, it's -- they're g-good, they're -- really good. [The tears are back, thick in Koby's voice as he drops his head forward, finds Quentin's ear and manages in a moan:] Just -- don't stop, please, please.
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I guess i-if that's an order... [Stammered, shuddery breaths, pitching into a higher, pleading whine when Quentin moves away, because every tease of his lips, tickle of his teeth is devastating, and Koby can feel his heart pulsing between his legs, cunt throbbing like a bruise and he doesn't want to go too fast, because of course he's still going to worry, albeit less intensely. But he's also rapidly moving from want to need, especially when Quentin drags him along the swelling length of his cock, slipping thick and hard so close that it gets a huffy, impatient sound.
One arm's made it's way around Quentin's neck, tangling in his hair, like Koby needs to hold on for stability, fingers tightening every time their hips shift, every time there's that maddening, too-slow friction. He's being asked a question and -- honestly how can Quentin still speak in that smooth, lilting, effortless way, half sailor, half poet, when Koby feels like he's going to die if he doesn't get something inside him right now?
But right, question -- hazy-eyed, it takes Koby a moment to focus, breath coming shaky from kiss-swollen, parted lips. He nods, trying to think about anything besides Quentin's cock against his ass, Quentin's mouth seared over his collarbone, his chest, his peaked, pointed nipple. It's not at all successful, evident in the way Koby whines open-mouthed, desperate, blunt nails against the back of Quentin's neck, urging him closer, sparks of sensitivity jolting down his spine, hitching his hips so he can rut against Qunetin's hard length, nudge it between spread thighs, spread folds.]
Y-Yeah, yes, it's -- they're g-good, they're -- really good. [The tears are back, thick in Koby's voice as he drops his head forward, finds Quentin's ear and manages in a moan:] Just -- don't stop, please, please.