Pleasure and frustration mingle in a way that Essek can't help enjoying, though he wouldn't easily admit to it. He lets his back arch and a hand brace him against the couch as Percival's mouth works greedily over his cock without any help or instruction from him, and it is good, good enough to make him gasp his pleasure into the quiet room, good enough to make him come quickly and easily on its own. But it's the way his cunt aches as his fingers rub through his folds, occasionally hinting at more as they just barely curl into his now dripping entrance, that makes this electric. Essek takes some quiet pride in how well his husband knows how to play his body.

The swap from mouth to hand and fingers to tongue makes him gasp louder, makes his thighs twitch on either side of Percival's head. When his tongue plunges deep, Essek feels himself flutter around it, feels his cock throb against his husband's wonderfully familiar rough palm. His legs stretch out, almost languid, and he tilts his hips up for even better access. The wet noise of Percival tonguing his soaked cunt, making a mess of his handsome face and everything between Essek's legs, and Essek's increasingly stilted breathing fill the study. The tip of his cock is wet and dripping too, and Essek feels the heat of orgasm beginning to unfurl low in his gut. It is so easy to get him there, these days--not that Percival had ever struggled.

But he resists a fast climb as much as he can--toes curling in his soft slippers--wanting to let it build a little more, wanting to watch his mate work a little more.