Connor has grown accustomed to making men sway to his desires - it was a game for which he found that he had a natural talent, and so he had mastered it. But it is for Oliver that he has needed to work the hardest, because what he desires is far greater than one night together, a tumble in the sheets like he has had with so many men who by the end of the week, the end of the month, did not matter anymore. What he needs from him cannot be obtained by only kissing the right spot, touching in just the right way.
That part he is still practicing.
He surrenders to Oliver, complying with the firm instructions implied in his touch. As he walks backwards, his ravenous lips find Oliver's once more, and his hands set to work on his shirt, soon tossing it aside. There is no mistaking the way his gaze dips over the other man's bared chest, rising then to his face. The face he misses waking up next to in the morning, the face he has missed kissing.]
And you don't know how much I wish you could see what I see right now.
[The beauty he sees in Oliver, but not the ugliness he hides inside himself.
When the back of his knees bump into the edge of the bed, Connor sinks into it, tugging Oliver down with him. In his impatience to make up for the time lost to silence and distance, he allows almost no time for the other man to even kick off his shoes. He needs to feel his weight on top of him, to be enshrined in his warmth. And when their bodies reconnect, his desire is apparent if not by the urgency of his lips then by the hard heat of his cock still trapped in his pants.]
no subject
Connor has grown accustomed to making men sway to his desires - it was a game for which he found that he had a natural talent, and so he had mastered it. But it is for Oliver that he has needed to work the hardest, because what he desires is far greater than one night together, a tumble in the sheets like he has had with so many men who by the end of the week, the end of the month, did not matter anymore. What he needs from him cannot be obtained by only kissing the right spot, touching in just the right way.
That part he is still practicing.
He surrenders to Oliver, complying with the firm instructions implied in his touch. As he walks backwards, his ravenous lips find Oliver's once more, and his hands set to work on his shirt, soon tossing it aside. There is no mistaking the way his gaze dips over the other man's bared chest, rising then to his face. The face he misses waking up next to in the morning, the face he has missed kissing.]
And you don't know how much I wish you could see what I see right now.
[The beauty he sees in Oliver, but not the ugliness he hides inside himself.
When the back of his knees bump into the edge of the bed, Connor sinks into it, tugging Oliver down with him. In his impatience to make up for the time lost to silence and distance, he allows almost no time for the other man to even kick off his shoes. He needs to feel his weight on top of him, to be enshrined in his warmth. And when their bodies reconnect, his desire is apparent if not by the urgency of his lips then by the hard heat of his cock still trapped in his pants.]