[ Lyney takes him deeper with each bob of his head and Wriothesley doesn't know if it's time gone by or him making this so hopelessly electric. He hisses under his breath, bites back curses, does everything he can not to rock forward into Lyney's perfect mouth. It's his performance, his show, and Wriothesley is enraptured.
The minutes build and with them, the soft sweet heat in his stomach. He can feel himself leaking precum heavily against Lyney's tongue, knows he'll taste himself when they next kiss. The thought of that--the proof of what they've done, something only they can know, something that makes Lyney his if only for tonight--nearly takes the breath from him, steals all his good caution out from under him, leaves him hot and wanting and ever closer to the finish. He should warn him he's getting there, knows he should offer some kind of verbal cue, but the words are impossible to reach under the pleasure, so he scrabbles for one of Lyney's hands with his own and squeezes it lightly when he finds it, hoping senselessly he's understood. ]
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The minutes build and with them, the soft sweet heat in his stomach. He can feel himself leaking precum heavily against Lyney's tongue, knows he'll taste himself when they next kiss. The thought of that--the proof of what they've done, something only they can know, something that makes Lyney his if only for tonight--nearly takes the breath from him, steals all his good caution out from under him, leaves him hot and wanting and ever closer to the finish. He should warn him he's getting there, knows he should offer some kind of verbal cue, but the words are impossible to reach under the pleasure, so he scrabbles for one of Lyney's hands with his own and squeezes it lightly when he finds it, hoping senselessly he's understood. ]