[Tate's groans are strangled around Derek's cock but they ebb and flow out of him whenever Derek's showing him a lick of attention - mouthing his cock through his boxers with a hot breath that makes him arch up toward it while simultaneously continuing to take the slide of cock into his own mouth, head lolled back. Leaving Derek to his own rhythm is an unreliable thing but it's all he's got - so when he's told to hold on, he does, figuring it's a sign of things ramping up.
He's not wrong, per se, but he is grateful that he was given that heads up. His one hand clamps to Derek's thigh, the other curling around his hip to dig his nails into his lower back. He holds on tight, arms slowly curling around Derek's body to anchor him close. He holds on to him, lifted bit by bit when he pulls out and slides off his cock with a lewd, wet noise, to settle back against the platform right in time to receive the next throat-scratching thrust.
Derek might be close but Tate's closer, thanks to the mix of praise-kink and slow building arousal finally peaking with the attention Derek dotes on him through his jeans - his toes are curled and his sneakers sliding against the wood, finding himself inescapably pinned down and that's what's really doing it. Derek's cock's filling his throat, his mouth and his lips are stretched taut around it when his leg starts to shake.
One thrust more and Derek'll come, he says, and Tate's got spit running down his chin when he pulls back. He's prepared for that last thrust, that bury-to-the-hilt again motion that'll reward him but he's not sure he can make it that far. Derek's pressing his cock back into his mouth and Tate's arching his back, nostrils flared for breath he can't take before a rumbling groan in his throat betrays the fact he's just come - soaking through his boxers, seizing up his body and making his nails dig red grooves into Derek's sides - inadvertently pulling him down into his open mouth with a blank, witless gesture.]
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He's not wrong, per se, but he is grateful that he was given that heads up. His one hand clamps to Derek's thigh, the other curling around his hip to dig his nails into his lower back. He holds on tight, arms slowly curling around Derek's body to anchor him close. He holds on to him, lifted bit by bit when he pulls out and slides off his cock with a lewd, wet noise, to settle back against the platform right in time to receive the next throat-scratching thrust.
Derek might be close but Tate's closer, thanks to the mix of praise-kink and slow building arousal finally peaking with the attention Derek dotes on him through his jeans - his toes are curled and his sneakers sliding against the wood, finding himself inescapably pinned down and that's what's really doing it. Derek's cock's filling his throat, his mouth and his lips are stretched taut around it when his leg starts to shake.
One thrust more and Derek'll come, he says, and Tate's got spit running down his chin when he pulls back. He's prepared for that last thrust, that bury-to-the-hilt again motion that'll reward him but he's not sure he can make it that far. Derek's pressing his cock back into his mouth and Tate's arching his back, nostrils flared for breath he can't take before a rumbling groan in his throat betrays the fact he's just come - soaking through his boxers, seizing up his body and making his nails dig red grooves into Derek's sides - inadvertently pulling him down into his open mouth with a blank, witless gesture.]