Oz shimmies out of the shirt and clutches Giles' shoulders, thumbs right on either side of the base of his neck so that Giles' pulse thunders against his skin
( ... )
Oz's smile, quick and teasing, makes Giles want to drag his wrists up behind his back, hold him still, kiss him until his lips are raw and sore. He digs his fingers into Oz's arse, grinds them together so Oz can feel how hard he is, scrapes his teeth down Oz's neck. "Yes, fuck, beg me. Want to hear you say please, hear how much you need me
( ... )
Giles, naked, is the realest, truest thing Oz knows. Strong and angular, he lives inside his skin like no one Oz has ever known, and he moves just like he's using his voice now, low and steady and sure, just like he's staring at Oz, urgent and confident and almost imperious
( ... )
It shakes the breath out of Giles, shakes him stunned and gasping. He knows it, he feels it in Oz's mouth and hands and body every time, but now it's in words. It's in Oz's voice, shaky and hesitant and yet urgent, in the widening of his eyes and the trembling of his lips as he lets the words trickle out into the air. It's all there, now, in the words--the flush of Oz's skin and the aching of his body, all his wanting and pleasure and love, everything Giles makes him feel. It's in the words, in the air, and Giles knows, and he's flushed and aching and he needs Oz, wants him, loves him
( ... )
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