For Essek, most things are about control. Or they used to be, at least, and he's still trying to shake that habit. Everything in him wants to say yes, have me, yet his pride and stubbornness remain. Despite the soft whine that escapes him as Percival's hand slips between his legs, the spike of pleasure from the brush over his swollen cock and the pressure that doesn't quite press between his folds, he can't bring himself to speak those words.

Light, this is unfair. It's the nip to his ear that makes his hips lift to grind his cunt into his husband's hand. Percival's honeyed words drip into his ear, hot and sweet, and settle low in his stomach, where that heat is only growing. But it does just as much to stroke his ego, the very pride he can't let go of. Even if he loses control here, gives himself over to the need he feels, nothing will change. Percival is his, and always will be. He won't lose his respect or his ability to, as he puts it, bring him to heel.

"Put your capable fingers to work, husband, and perhaps I will let you have me sooner," he bargains, forcing his breathless voice into some semblance of composure.