Each second claws at Dion's security in asking such a question. Miguel does not need to wholly meet his needs. In fact, has Dion paid him enough to? Perhaps there is a contract variation that he should have taken into account, yet they've not quite solidified nor even agreed to one yet, though Dion would want for no other escort as of now. Even so, the nervousness fluctuates in his chest, almost enough so to override his arousal, and it only grows the more time it takes for Miguel to agree to his request.
The seconds stretch into hours in Dion's mind, yet only the barest moment passes before Miguel acquiesces. It's enough for a pretty flush to rise in his cheeks. Shameful, almost, to be spiralling so fast, so suddenly, simply because he requested something of an escort, someone paid to be there with him. He wonders if he need more of that drug, that lovely smoke that tickles his throat and lightens his mind, but the words are enough for him to sink into that pleasurable daze, heady for more contact.
Saliva gathers in Dion's throat. He is all but panting for the feeling of something inside him. It has been too long, and it feels like a betrayal to even be considering this right now, but... this is okay, isn't it? It is, right? Tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes, but he closes them because he does not wish to acknowledge that feeling right now. Not entirely. That feeling is for when he is alone with no one to warm him bed no longer, and no one to pull him from the depths of his strongest nightmares.
His hips jerk even with the slightest touch of those soft hands. They are long. Though not coarse, they are more than enough to make Dion want for more, especially with how very handsome Miguel is. He feels shy, almost, when those fingers trace atop a scar, yet in contrast to the feeling, his thighs spread automatically as soon as Miguel moves betwixt them. Second nature, perhaps, or even just the simple need to submit runs more rampant in his mind than he cares to admit.
Not admit aloud, anyway. His actions and words, though, certainly suggest it. Especially when his lips part at the request, breath coming shallower, and he nods near eagerly in response. "Yes," he says breathlessly, his heart thumping faster, his cock harder than ever.
The finger breaching him feels both foreign and already so good. Dion has always been addicted to the stretch, to the penetration of a cock reaching so deep inside him, and a finger is no less pleasurable. Miguel has clearly done this before, with the way he presses one finger in, then another, clearly searching for a spot that Dion needs have pressure against, that hasn't been touched in far too long—
"Nngh—!" A choked noise, a whimper, leaves his lips. There. His cock twitches, leaking precum as arousal jolts through his spine. He enjoys this, of course he does, but he tries to stifle the next whine that rises in his throat out of embarassment. He needn't be so obnoxious to assume that Miguel enjoys this, that he would even like hearing the noise that comes from him. Instead, his toes curl, his fingers grip the blankets beneath them, and he tries to rock his hips to meet those fingers in an effort to feel that spike of pleasure again.
