He wants it like he wants the sun—strawberry silk and sugar on the rim; honeysuckle in a tequila haze. Wants the nails, the skin, the heaving bones, heat squeezed and smothering. The broken worship and ragged mews; the soft-sweet, scraping pain.
If he could live a lifetime at his vice of choice, he would only choose here: kneeled in worship between a snare of warm limbs, reined in and dragged down; wine on his lips, heat on his tongue, glitter under his hands.
He could want it for hours. Could hunger after it for days. And when the feast is done—when he's finally, frantically pulled from it—he'll grin at them: lazy crook at the corner, savored by a flicking tongue.
Feel good? Terzo will burr, low and musing.
Often, often enough it risks going to his head, they'll be too boneless to manage a breath.
But the ones who say Yes, like it's confession: whisper it, shivering, fingers snaking through his hair—
Those are the ones who will have him sliding down, again—and again, after that. As many times as they'll let him: his palm slipping, squeezing on shaking legs: his tongue serpentine, Devilish.
He forgets sometimes the fire it stirs in him. Even if he's crushed on the bed, on the floor; even if he can feel it.
He's too far gone in the snarls, the panting praise.
A bloom painted beneath his lips, unfurling.
A fire surging deep, and deeper still.
He knows it is. Knows he is.
It's one of few things he knows he can do well.
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