He laughs around a shaky moan and cracks an eye open to catch sight of her. His expression dips, humor and smiles drawn away by a pinched, nearly pained look of pleasure as his fingers ghost across his prostate. He hadn't been aiming for it, but the pressure, the spark of sensation and need it shoots through him, is enough to have his cock hardened to straining between his legs.

"What is a bard without practice?" He asks against her lips, huffs a quiet laugh, and then his humor is overshadowed entirely by the breathy, strained quality of his exhale. It catches on a high throaty sound and he breathes out a thin stream as he pauses the work of his fingers and nearly draws them free.

He has practiced this on his own, though he does not do this too often. There is less satisfaction to be had in fucking one's self open on an immobile appendage. He has always enjoyed sex for the company more than the actual acts or the sensations that followed. Alone it...leaves him to his thoughts.

He would prefer not to think at all.

"Tell me, my sweetling, am I ready for you?" His question has a whine in it. He will continue, will try to add his fourth finger if she advises it, but he is already trembling. He wants her to remain above him as she is now, to drive into him, wants to watch her breasts bounce and her hair drape over them both like a curtain of darkest night--

"As ready as I can be--" he ammends, soppy and tender with his want and infatuation.