[Predictably, there is a soft, whining sound of protest when Quentin pulls back, when his cock slips free -- not yet, not enough, not done yet -- but then Koby's being nudged to his back, and he lets his shaky, trembling legs give, heedless of the damp cling of the sheets to his back, his thighs, spreading them wide, eagerly. He grabs at Quentin, clumsily, tugs him closer and kisses over his cheek, his nose, lips parting on a moan against the corner of his mouth when he nudges back inside, settles between Koby's quivery thighs like he was made to be there. Sensitive, breathless, he opens his mouth to each languid, lazy kiss, smiles into them, half-expecting Quentin to settle heavy and warm against him.
But he shifts, he moves, still hard enough inside Koby that his oversensitive body pulses, clenches, drips onto the soaked sheets, and one shift of his hips has him gasping, shuddering, back arching up, seeking that angle again. Quentin's -- not done yet, not quite, the texting and the heated coupling of moments before not enough. The realization makes Koby laugh breathlessly, arms up around Quentin's neck, holding him close enough that the gently, rhythmic grind of his hips hits just right, stirs that slow-glowing ember of pleasure back up towards a flame.]
You m-missed me? [Still a little slurred, still trembly with aftershocks, fingers seeking out the sweat-slick curls at the back of Quentin's neck, tangling into them, chest hitching at the slowly-building sparks of pleasure.] M'right here. Not going anywhere. [It's the endorphins -- a word Koby knows now from a few too many biology books, from reading and studying pleasure and sex like it can somehow explain what happens when he's spread out in the sheets, when he feels hands on his body, on all the places he believed nobody would ever want, when this man kisses him. It hasn't, yet -- but his face is raw in it's pure adoration, in the worshipful way his free hand comes to cradle the side of Quentin's face.] I'm not going anywhere.
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But he shifts, he moves, still hard enough inside Koby that his oversensitive body pulses, clenches, drips onto the soaked sheets, and one shift of his hips has him gasping, shuddering, back arching up, seeking that angle again. Quentin's -- not done yet, not quite, the texting and the heated coupling of moments before not enough. The realization makes Koby laugh breathlessly, arms up around Quentin's neck, holding him close enough that the gently, rhythmic grind of his hips hits just right, stirs that slow-glowing ember of pleasure back up towards a flame.]
You m-missed me? [Still a little slurred, still trembly with aftershocks, fingers seeking out the sweat-slick curls at the back of Quentin's neck, tangling into them, chest hitching at the slowly-building sparks of pleasure.] M'right here. Not going anywhere. [It's the endorphins -- a word Koby knows now from a few too many biology books, from reading and studying pleasure and sex like it can somehow explain what happens when he's spread out in the sheets, when he feels hands on his body, on all the places he believed nobody would ever want, when this man kisses him. It hasn't, yet -- but his face is raw in it's pure adoration, in the worshipful way his free hand comes to cradle the side of Quentin's face.] I'm not going anywhere.