His husband's breathless praise rings in Essek's ears, making him proud enough to preen if he were capable of more than writhing with raw need. As he's fucked into the bed, his sounds of pleasure are soft but emphatic, constant and encouraging. The peak of his orgasm fades, yet the discomfort of oversensitivity never sets in. He's held in a state of perpetual longing, sweet and hot; it feels like he'll never have enough of this man, even as he drives deep into him with his knot swelling to aching fullness.

The sharp tug as his body refuses to release him again is gratifying, a wave of warmth radiating from his tightly clenching cunt along his spine. The noise he makes as his mate's cock throbs with release inside him is so brazenly lewd he would be embarrassed if he weren't so distracted, a silky moan as shameless as it is sultry. It's followed by a sharper little whimper as blunt human teeth scrape at his sensitive ear and his own tense muscles twitch and quiver, from his thighs to his fingers.

Every thought has drained from his head. Every thought that is except yes, more, fill me. Those words exactly might even spill from his heavy tongue in slurred Undercommon.

The last time he lost himself so completely was months ago in a cave somewhere deep in the Parchwood Timberlands with the Wolf of Whitestone between his legs. The locale, at least, has improved this time.

He lifts his free hand, dripping with his own come, to his mouth. A wide, vulgar swipe of his tongue across his palm cleans his dark skin decently well, and he raises his fingers to his mate's face, where he traces the stubbled line of his jaw with an adoring fondness that borders on reverence. This man is his everything, and he would not have it otherwise.