with a burning violin

His own mind isn’t much better, a muddled mess that he can only offer with the demonstration of his body. But his eyes watch her, the way she curls and adjusts, the way she drags his hand to her hair with the other one, the way she opens herself up for him to indulge, and indulge he does. No longer does the game come into play, of poker faces and pretend, and so he does as she offers, hips rolling up to her, pushing himself deeper against her lips, body tensing against the sparks he can feel dancing along her tongue, breaking him just enough that he growls low and deep in his throat, setting a manageable pace with his hips against her. “[say]Fuck—[/say]” He manages, cutting himself off, relishing in the sensation and feel of her.

And as he said, given the free reign to set his own pace with the promise of being able to fuck her after, he pants and offers her plenty of sounds as a pretense, until his fingers are tightening against her hair, dragging blunt nails along her neck, a forewarning before the tether snaps to give her time to do with it whatever she pleased. His mind is abuzz with the sensation that wracks through him, a burning shock that has him trembling with restraint that’s given away by the pulse within him that thunders, with the heat and trickling sweat that overcomes him.