When Stephen pulls back, Quentin starts to warn him hold on and wait, fully forgetting the little prod he'd dealt out seconds ago and twisted up in the orgasm about to unravel in Stephen's mouth. The thing he does with his mouth hits Quentin like a fucking train. His voice in his mouth follows the same explosive arc as the arousal in his shaft, peaking at the top of his throat and souring when he can't finish.

His hips strain against Stephen's grip, head dips back dangerously between his shoulders as Quentin tries to find ground underneath the dizzying height in his head and veins and thighs. His voice snaps, stunned and indignant as he glares back down: "What the fuck?"