The skate of Thomas's mouth across the edge of bruises fluttered a sigh out of Krem. He arched and squirmed, his breath hitching slowly higher with each tracking press of lips, each emboldened slide of tongue, each lingering breath on his skin.

He kept his hands tucked under his head, arms flexed gently, as he felt the way their hips slotted together. He bit his lip slightly, trying to keep his breathing somewhere close to normal, trying not to rush or hurry. They had all day, as much time as they wanted. They had no direction.

But his body ached. Not pain, not the lingering abuse of the night before, but a deep, hot pull toward Thomas's body on top of his. His body thrummed with needing something, anything, all of it.

Krem sighed and lifted a hand out from under his head, carding his fingers through Thomas's hair.