He stares at her through heavy lids and catches his breath. The hand on his chest is drawn up to press it against his cheek and saw. He smiles at the delicate drag os her lips by his eyes, on the damp trails the watering of them had left. She is heaving, breathing hard and eager and he leans up to capture her mouth with his.
The heavy weight of that cock within him shifts as he does, grinds harder to his over-sensitive prostate and pulls a thready gasp out of him--he shivers hard but doesn't fall back, doesn't give up her mouth or the gentle movement between them.
"I am still half in the stars, but can you blame me? So many of them linger in your eyes," he mutters, his poetry returning to him with saccharine gusto.
He is not given to moving his partners with force, not unless they have voiced a proclivity for it, but she is wanting and flushed above him and his faculties have returned. The fuzzy haze of alcohol has burned away at last and he is clear and bright and aware. Oh, how he intends to repay her, how he wants to make her call and cry and quiver. His hand on her hip pulls her tighter, his leg catches her thigh to keep her immobile--she is sunk so deep that it is a bit of a trick to flip them, but he is nothing if not clever.
He turns her onto her back, sets her dark hair fanning out over the fur and linen. Like spilled ink atop clean pages. She is held deep, tight against him, but her phallus has no give to it and it steals his breath again with a hard jarring press against him, shifting as they do. He swallows the sound that shivers through him and presses her back against the bed, his lips against hers moving in hard, open-mouthed strokes and bites.
"Shall I return the favor, sweetling?" he asks against her mouth and moves his hand from atop hers so it can hold him up above her. His eyes are bright and clear and his smile is full of hedonistic promise. Thank the Gods' she had a ring for him.
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The heavy weight of that cock within him shifts as he does, grinds harder to his over-sensitive prostate and pulls a thready gasp out of him--he shivers hard but doesn't fall back, doesn't give up her mouth or the gentle movement between them.
"I am still half in the stars, but can you blame me? So many of them linger in your eyes," he mutters, his poetry returning to him with saccharine gusto.
He is not given to moving his partners with force, not unless they have voiced a proclivity for it, but she is wanting and flushed above him and his faculties have returned. The fuzzy haze of alcohol has burned away at last and he is clear and bright and aware. Oh, how he intends to repay her, how he wants to make her call and cry and quiver. His hand on her hip pulls her tighter, his leg catches her thigh to keep her immobile--she is sunk so deep that it is a bit of a trick to flip them, but he is nothing if not clever.
He turns her onto her back, sets her dark hair fanning out over the fur and linen. Like spilled ink atop clean pages. She is held deep, tight against him, but her phallus has no give to it and it steals his breath again with a hard jarring press against him, shifting as they do. He swallows the sound that shivers through him and presses her back against the bed, his lips against hers moving in hard, open-mouthed strokes and bites.
"Shall I return the favor, sweetling?" he asks against her mouth and moves his hand from atop hers so it can hold him up above her. His eyes are bright and clear and his smile is full of hedonistic promise. Thank the Gods' she had a ring for him.