Essek is drawn tight as a bow. His hand clenches and unclenches where his husband holds it against the bed, needing to grasp something steady. Thighs framing Percival's hips, this position offers both comfort and the leverage necessary to give Essek the kind of fucking he craves. Percival doesn't take long to ramp up to a demanding rhythm, holding Essek down all the while, his cock seated deep inside. His thrusts drive against something soft and sensitive within him, and Essek is robbed of breath. When he bears down deliberately for the pleasure of emphasizing that fullness, the stretch is considerable. It is the kind of sensation that sits just to the left of pain, the kind of sharpness that resolves into tingling warmth. It is heavenly.

Everywhere they touch is a point of heat, including where blunt human teeth nip at his sensitive ear. Keening, Essek bucks and writhes under him, feeling the silken texture of his own discarded garments against his back. His husband's wicked, provocative words pull his focus from where Percival splits him wide, parting the fullness of his soaked folds, where every inward thrust fills him to the brim. In the same salacious picture, his own hand strokes his leaking cock slow and tight in thrilling counterpoint.

"Keep fucking me and you'll find out." The sharp insolence of his words is undercut by the slurred thickness of his accent, the heaviness of his tongue in his mouth. After he speaks it hangs open obscenely, panting, as though he forgot to close it in his distraction, displaying the points of elongated white fangs against the dark, plush velvet of his lips.

Of course he's going to come, probably well before they've been at this long enough to coax out his alpha's knot. Along with the sensation of being filled, feeling Percival inside him brings with it a sense of wholeness. A manifestation of how inexorably connected they are made hot, pulsing, breathtaking, physical.