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?"
He can't take his eyes off of him. The urge to keep him there, hanging out over the edge comes with warring instincts: self-satisfied and greedy, the desire to make him plead takes up arms against the softer want to hold him there only so that he has more time to give in to every little thing Quentin might ask of him along the way, crest made all the sweeter for the wait.
He settles himself somewhere in the middle. Lets one hand smooth down over Quentin's thigh as he speaks, wrap and grasp. Eye contact unflinching, smirk undeniable.
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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?"
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He settles himself somewhere in the middle. Lets one hand smooth down over Quentin's thigh as he speaks, wrap and grasp. Eye contact unflinching, smirk undeniable.
"Just following directions."