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his cock throbs, alive with want yet limp despite his hunger, hanging a different kind of heavy between his legs.

and there's a part of him that knows he has to make this good for you. that knows he has to make this suffice, and recognizes this is all he can give you in this moment. his fingers. his touch.

and because he's feeling you against him, because he has you in his arms, he allows himself to think of sweeter things.

of things more mellowed, of things that are softer.

he thinks of the taste of your lips. vanilla, like your lip balm. he thinks of the scent on your skin. warm, like the notes in your perfume; deep, like the notes in his cologne. he thinks of the touch of your skin. soft, tender, pulsing under his touch. alive.

greed overcomes his senses, and he wants more.

wants to taste you until he’s drowning in ichor. wants to touch you until he’s burning as he stands.

he wants more. more, more.

two of his fingers slip inside your hole, long and lithe and rough, and warmth swallows him hole. your head falls back against his shoulder, and you turn your face, ever so slightly, to press a ghost of a kiss to the side of his neck.

he’s overcome with feeling, and made up entirely of want. and he pulls a moan from your lips with his touch, his digits move against your walls.

you press back against him, writhing against his frame. the hair on his chest burns against your skin. his other hand is splayed along your inner thigh, keeping you open, keeping you close. he presses down against supple skin, and feels your breath hitting faster against his neck.

a kiss upon his pulse. a flex of his fingers.

you can barely refrain from closing your eyes. his touch is unrepentant, intoxicating, and you don’t want to miss a second of it. not when it feels like being struck with lightning. not when it feels like you're being overcome with bliss.

you moan again, and your cunt clenches around his touch. you're dripping down his hand, his skin glistening as he moves fingers in a rhythm that grows faster with every passing second.

he doesn't pull away. he pulls you closer, as if called by a siren's song, as if pulled by unseen string, as if tugged by divine hands. he allows himself to be mellow, and he allows himself to be soft. he allows himself to be present, and sees, and hears, and feels, nothing that is not you.

he kisses your shoulder. he doesn't bare his teeth.

a noise, something unfamiliar, born in the depths of his belly makes its way up his throat, and slips past his lips as he exhales.

it is rare. it is special. you store it deep, deep inside, and decide to treasure it forever.

he adds a third finger, presses his thumb down against your clit, and feels himself leaking down against your skin. down onto the sheets.

and he relishes in the feeling.

it’s sweeter. and it’s softer.

he wants more, more, more.

he doesn’t think he will ever get enough.

first maekar contribution to the erectile dysfunction thoughts plaguing my head and my blog, yippee! i hope everyone likes it!