[Even the gentle press of Quentin's mouth (wet, warm, heated from hungrily lapping up the slick evidence of Koby's climax) is nearly too much, nearly has him whiting out from how good it feels, whining low in his throat at the loss and simultaneously unable to fathom what it'd feel like to have Quentin inside him again. I can't and I want tangle in his mind, but his knees fall open, wider, wider, opening for Quentin to slide up the length of his shivery body, kiss him salty-sweet and lingering, plundering his panting mouth -- like a pirate, like a sailor, like the sea itself. Koby's legs hitch over Quentin's hips, keeping him close, grumbling wordlessly against his mouth at the teasing slide of his cock through slick, flushed folds, even as his whole body goes white-hot with pleasure. He wants, he needs, he --
-- and then Quentin grabs his hands, pins them above his head and that tight, anxious thing inside Koby unravels like a rope sliced in twain, like a sail flapping free, like waves between his fingers. He laces their fingers together and lines up and presses in, and Koby might come again, he might never have stopped, but he makes a sound sharp and bright and blissful in the space between their mouths, arches up into Quentin, helpless and wanton and lost. It's not too much, it's perfect, it's perfect, that thick full heat notching right into his body like he was made for it, made for this, clenching and throbbing and squeezing.
And that might all be out loud -- perfect and more and harder -- but Koby's not sure of anything that isn't Quentin's hands, Quentin's mouth, Quentin's body pressed to his, Quentin's cock driving to the hilt inside him over and over. Face flushed, hazy, fuckdrunk and blissed, Koby leans up enough to kiss at the other man's mouth, getting his cheek, his chin, clumsily lost in how good everything feels. He's fuzzy at the edges, he's somewhere in the clouds, he's only just aware of the slick, obscene sound of Quentin fucking down into him, too satisfied to do more than float in between worlds and take it. Except -- no, except something's missing and Koby can't quite float away until --]
You too. [It's mumbled, caught on the corner of Quentin's lips, between rasping, panting, shuddering breaths.] You -- inside, come inside me again, again, please, feels s-so good, so good when you do, f-fill me up again, Quentin...
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-- and then Quentin grabs his hands, pins them above his head and that tight, anxious thing inside Koby unravels like a rope sliced in twain, like a sail flapping free, like waves between his fingers. He laces their fingers together and lines up and presses in, and Koby might come again, he might never have stopped, but he makes a sound sharp and bright and blissful in the space between their mouths, arches up into Quentin, helpless and wanton and lost. It's not too much, it's perfect, it's perfect, that thick full heat notching right into his body like he was made for it, made for this, clenching and throbbing and squeezing.
And that might all be out loud -- perfect and more and harder -- but Koby's not sure of anything that isn't Quentin's hands, Quentin's mouth, Quentin's body pressed to his, Quentin's cock driving to the hilt inside him over and over. Face flushed, hazy, fuckdrunk and blissed, Koby leans up enough to kiss at the other man's mouth, getting his cheek, his chin, clumsily lost in how good everything feels. He's fuzzy at the edges, he's somewhere in the clouds, he's only just aware of the slick, obscene sound of Quentin fucking down into him, too satisfied to do more than float in between worlds and take it. Except -- no, except something's missing and Koby can't quite float away until --]
You too. [It's mumbled, caught on the corner of Quentin's lips, between rasping, panting, shuddering breaths.] You -- inside, come inside me again, again, please, feels s-so good, so good when you do, f-fill me up again, Quentin...