Her praise truly gets to him, makes him eager and wanting, and he leans just so as she pulls away after that pack, a faint and distracted attempt to reclaim her lips. His abs burn, though, and he is finally forced to drop his arm back onto the bedding, to prop himself up and reclaim the best angle to prepare himself. His eyes are closed, he cannot remember closing them, and cannot seem to open them.

His focus is elsewhere.

The lubricant she has provided is, truly, very, very good. It clings and slides and seems to have made a slick, friction-less film over his skin. He doesn't even bother fetching the bottle when he twists his hand and sinks a third finger into himself. That--that makes his hips jolt and tremble, his cock rising red and pink between them--he laughs breathlessly.

How lucky he is, that he shall be straining before she even sinks into him. Oh, he will be mad with want of her her and her touches before long. Somehow, he thinks she will like that.

"What can I say," he breathes and keens just slightly as he stretches himself. "I am inspired by you, and an inspired artist can work wonders."

Her fingertips linger on his belly still--the places she has scratched tingle and he wishes she would do it again.