[ There's something odd, perhaps dangerous in the way they look at each other in that moment. Besides, of course, the way they are physically intimate, besides the fact that this isn't their first time doing this, or how Mishka promised to love him, or how Trahearne said his name in desperation.
But he's lucky he doesn't get to dwell on it too long, because when Mishka comes in for the kiss, he stops thinking. He lends himself to Mishka's heat, drowns in the deep affection of his kiss, and a quiet moan rolls in his throat.
That sound, indecent like anything he'd heard before, sets his insides on fire. Mishka moves against him--Trahearne understands what it means, somewhere in his addled mind, but can't dwell on it too long. He rips his lips from Mishka's as the pressure and friction and contact and sound and the sight--oh, the sight--of it all comes together and sends him careening over his apex. He throws his head back into the soft of the blankets, a loud, cracked groan spilling from his open mouth. His fingers dig tighter into his hips; absently, he wonders how hard he'd have to grab him to bruise him again.
A torrent of his come--sweet nectar--fills Mishka up, just as he asked. And much like Mishka, he still feels himself desperately hard, not at all satisfied yet. He doesn't know when, where, or how to stop. His mouth moves, searching for words; his hip thrusts slow, simply because he grows tired, and his eyes roam his naked body before settling on the deep pools of his eyes. ]
Mishka, I... [ ...have to keep going. I need to stop. I need more. I can't keep doing this. I want more of you. I should take care of the rest myself.
He doesn't know what he wants. His voice comes out in a half-pant, his brows furrow in embarrassment. Yet his hands let go of their vice-like grip on his hips, and come to gently caress his rear, the small of his back. ]
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But he's lucky he doesn't get to dwell on it too long, because when Mishka comes in for the kiss, he stops thinking. He lends himself to Mishka's heat, drowns in the deep affection of his kiss, and a quiet moan rolls in his throat.
That sound, indecent like anything he'd heard before, sets his insides on fire. Mishka moves against him--Trahearne understands what it means, somewhere in his addled mind, but can't dwell on it too long. He rips his lips from Mishka's as the pressure and friction and contact and sound and the sight--oh, the sight--of it all comes together and sends him careening over his apex. He throws his head back into the soft of the blankets, a loud, cracked groan spilling from his open mouth. His fingers dig tighter into his hips; absently, he wonders how hard he'd have to grab him to bruise him again.
A torrent of his come--sweet nectar--fills Mishka up, just as he asked. And much like Mishka, he still feels himself desperately hard, not at all satisfied yet. He doesn't know when, where, or how to stop. His mouth moves, searching for words; his hip thrusts slow, simply because he grows tired, and his eyes roam his naked body before settling on the deep pools of his eyes. ]
Mishka, I... [ ...have to keep going. I need to stop. I need more. I can't keep doing this. I want more of you. I should take care of the rest myself.
He doesn't know what he wants. His voice comes out in a half-pant, his brows furrow in embarrassment. Yet his hands let go of their vice-like grip on his hips, and come to gently caress his rear, the small of his back. ]