[ When Emery shudders awake in the wee hours of the morning it's on a sigh that would make a nun blush. He'd been having a dream — a wonderful dream filled with formless eroticism and a firm, possessive touch — enough to have his cock is rock hard in his boxer-briefs and his throat lightly dusted with sweat. It's ridiculous, of course, because he's not some horny teenager, but after ten minutes of wrestling with his conscience he decides that fine — fine.
It's his flat, right? And Elle will be fast asleep. If he can rub one out quickly and clean up quietly, why shouldn't he do just that?
And that's how Emery ends up kicking the blanket off onto the floor and pushing his pants down around his knees; how he ends up spitting into his hand and wrapping his palm around his dick. It's good. He starts slow, teasing himself, pushing his pyjama tee up a little way to slide his free hand across his abdomen; wandering down towards his balls as he begins to work himself with thorough strokes.
If he groans, it isn't intentional. If he gasps he tries to stifle it. But, as Emery gets more invested in his "alone time" he finds it more difficult to keep quiet — when he presses two fingers over his perineum he moans sharply into his pillow, dark curls sticking to his neck as he pants into the fabric.
COME TO ME Elle c:
[ When Emery shudders awake in the wee hours of the morning it's on a sigh that would make a nun blush. He'd been having a dream — a wonderful dream filled with formless eroticism and a firm, possessive touch — enough to have his cock is rock hard in his boxer-briefs and his throat lightly dusted with sweat. It's ridiculous, of course, because he's not some horny teenager, but after ten minutes of wrestling with his conscience he decides that fine — fine.
It's his flat, right? And Elle will be fast asleep. If he can rub one out quickly and clean up quietly, why shouldn't he do just that?
And that's how Emery ends up kicking the blanket off onto the floor and pushing his pants down around his knees; how he ends up spitting into his hand and wrapping his palm around his dick. It's good. He starts slow, teasing himself, pushing his pyjama tee up a little way to slide his free hand across his abdomen; wandering down towards his balls as he begins to work himself with thorough strokes.
If he groans, it isn't intentional. If he gasps he tries to stifle it. But, as Emery gets more invested in his "alone time" he finds it more difficult to keep quiet — when he presses two fingers over his perineum he moans sharply into his pillow, dark curls sticking to his neck as he pants into the fabric.
Gods ... ]