champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between
"Maybe I was," Mateo purrs in return, head turning as if he might steal a quick and breathless kiss from Thorn's lips. At times like this, entangled as they are, it's easy to spill sweet nothings, compliments and affections and all the encouragements necessary to reach their end goal. Not that the botanist's mind stays there for long as Thorn's hips surge forward, and he breaks their kiss to gasp a note of bliss that he's sure the person hurrying past has stopped to listen to.
Back arching deliciously into the other man's thrusts, Mateo's head tips back to encourage the fingers around his throat, however gentle (or not) they might be, and his moans pitch higher as the thump of the table echoes around the room, as if they're both putting on a performance. (And maybe they are - he's no longer in a position to see if someone has stopped to watch, or to touch themselves, or to call their friends for the show).
"Mi scopi così bene," he purrs, his voice hoarse and his cock throbbing hard against the squeeze of Thorn's fingers. "Gods, I'm not going to last--"
Back arching deliciously into the other man's thrusts, Mateo's head tips back to encourage the fingers around his throat, however gentle (or not) they might be, and his moans pitch higher as the thump of the table echoes around the room, as if they're both putting on a performance. (And maybe they are - he's no longer in a position to see if someone has stopped to watch, or to touch themselves, or to call their friends for the show).
"Mi scopi così bene," he purrs, his voice hoarse and his cock throbbing hard against the squeeze of Thorn's fingers. "Gods, I'm not going to last--"
