Ah, you think you get the rules of the game. You have to keep reading, or try to, while he teases you. You can do that. Mostly. As long as he doesn't make shameless use of how sensitive your neck is. Which, of course, he does, because he is Trouble. You retaliate by grinding your butt against his crotch. Subtlety is for cats.
You stifle a laugh— badly— and lean forward to bite at the back of his neck. "No, go on, I want to know what happens next," you tell him. It is entirely coincidence that you've got half your weight on him, now, and a hand splayed possessively across his stomach.
"Sure you do, Troubleface," you laugh breathlessly, but you go on reading, stumbling over half the words, losing the thread entirely when he bites your neck.
"You're terrible at this," you mumble, and bite him a few more times. He tastes good, all the shampoo and car smell worn off, and the way he's pressing back against your cock isn't bad, either. You get his hips pinned against yours and thrust against the soft curve of his ass from behind, huffing in pleasure. "I— d'you want—s'there any more— what you used last night—" you've forgotten the word for it. You lick his spine instead.
Your latest attempt at Chandler trails off into a verbal keysmash, and you groan. "Yes, front pocket of -- with the toiletries, the, the, toothbrush and. Stuff." You remember he said he wanted to switch it up, but if he wants to fuck you again instead you are right alongside that plan. You can feel the heat of his erection through the thin fabric of your boxers, and the only reason you haven't gotten rid of the underwear already is because the way he's gripping your hips is lovely and you don't want to fight it.
"Okay, okay— right—" you pull away from Bel with tremendous effort, and only barely remember in time not to go rooting through the pocket with your face. You stick a hand in and fumble until you get a tube of toothpaste, which you drop, and then the tube of slick, lubricant, whatever it is. The look on Bel's face when you turn back to him is breathtaking, and you have to get an arm around his shoulders and kiss him for awhile just because of it. "On your knees?" you suggest. "D'you mind, it's nice, or I could? I mean, I could, and, you—rrgh." You kiss him again.
"Might be too cold, but let's try," you decide as you ditch your remaining clothes. On your knees, you can't fit inside the sleeping bag really, but the cold isn't bothering you much at the moment, the way his kisses burn you up. "Warm up the lube before you use it or I'll never open up, though."
"I was thinking, I'd just—" you get the stuff all over your hands, pump your cock a few times, luxuriating in the sensation, then pull Bel over to you by a hip. "Here, like, like this," you say, stroking the slickness across his thighs, up his erection. "Isn't very, ah, creative, but." When you get your arms around his ribs and press up behind him he's warm and the slide of your cock against the underside of his makes you shudder and gasp, completely pleased with yourself.
"Oh," you say surprised, and then in a different tone, "Oh. I like this." You reach back to palm a handful of his ass. Give a wriggle just to hear him gasp. Half twist, turn your head so you can kiss, and what is it about this man that gets you so turned on so fast, he turns you to quivering jelly like it's nothing, he must have a superpower.
You and focus on pushing in and out of the slick heat slowly, smoothly, not just brainlessly humping away. His cock is heavy against your hand when you cup it against his stomach, rub the crown of it with your fingertips so he curses and goes heavily to his elbows. He makes the most wonderful noises. "Lovely," you pant. "Gorgeous, fuck." You drag your teeth along the bunching muscles of his back.
You were not prepared for him taking it slow. You weren't prepared for his hand to be gentle and clever and teasingly loose. You gasp his name like it's -- not a prayer, no, more like a courage word, like 'banzai' or 'Geronimo'. "Fuck, this is good," you add, as if he can't tell, as if he can't see the way you writhe, caught between the delicious sharpness of his teeth and the perfect friction of his cock and his hand. The ever-anxious part of you thinks you should be doing something, you can't just kneel here and make happy noises into your pillow, you have to perform somehow, but you tell it to shut the hell up. Erskin picked this position where you can't reach him very well. Obviously that's part of the point. You sure as hell like it, anyway.
It's hard to go this slowly, when all you want to do is race along after your own pleasure, but it's worth it for the noises he makes, the way he grows progressively more wild and demonstrative. You love this part, do your best to encourage it, stroke him as softly as you can get away with, how he seems to like being teased. When he struggles to turn around, to reach for you, to paw at your ass, you get a handful of his shaggy hair and bear him back down. "Just— like this, 'm good, stay," you pant, concentration roughening all your hard-won words. You pull back and shove forward again faster, though, for all your effort, you go a little harder. You bite him again with sharper teeth. "Stay."
"Oh god," you gasp, feeling like your bones just boiled, "yes, yes okay -- god, talk to me like that, your voice, holy shit --" You're shaking all over now, twitching, you can feel the heat of impending orgasm coiling in you but it's not going anywhere. Just growing and growing until you think it'll burn right through you like a thermite grenade through armor plating.
You growl, a little embarrassed, but at his wild shudder you realize that's what he likes, the way you struggle for a human voice and it comes out all in rough pieces. "You're— good, this is good, just stay, with me, here, we're— you're so pretty, so sweet—Bel—" The way you're holding him's gone rough, too, hard and possessive, each time he presses back to meet your thrusts spurring the next one on to be just that much faster, sloppier, less controlled. "Fuck," you snarl, coming to the very end of your self-control, "I'm— I can't—" you shudder and fist his cock, pump it hard, slam into him. You're utterly caught up in the heat of him, the way he cries out, you spend yourself between his legs in long, gasping pulses. "Fuck, fuck, sorry," you mumble, still trembling. Face pressed to his back, listening to his thundering pulse. You ease your grip to give his cock a slow, soft stroke, almost petting it, your hand as shaky as the rest of you.
His desperation is as much to blame for your finish as his hand. It's blinding, and loud, and knocks you silly, so that it's only the way you're wedged back against him that keeps you from just flopping down in the wet spot. His soft touching afterwards makes you squirm a little, oversensitive, but it's not actually unpleasant. "Sorry? What for?" you say absently, hoarse from how loud he made you get. "You melted my brain, A+, full marks."
"Oh, I— okay, then. Not sorry. Meant to go. Slow. The whole way." You slide off him to one side, hit the sleeping bag. Separated from the endless warmth of Bel's backside, the cold air nips at the wet mess you've made of yourself from knees to navel, and you curl up, grimacing. A cursory lick of your lower thigh sends you sputtering and wiping at your mouth, but with your hands just as covered in the chemical-flavored lubricant this doesn't help. You flail. "Pffghflbleh, where's the rag— this is nasty—"
You laugh when he licks himself, and laugh harder at the faces he makes, and the flailing has you paralytic, but you manage to grab the rag and help him de-lube his hands and de-spunk all the gooey places. The wet spot is still kind of cold and damp, but you consent to lie in it because someone has to, at least if you want to close the sleeping bag and snuggle up. "If you went slow the whole way I'm pretty sure I would've died or turned into a caveman or had a spontaneous lobotomy. You were driving me absolutely crazy."
"That's alright then," you say, pleased. You kiss him for awhile, because his mouth tastes a lot better than yours, and also because he's still so very, ridiculously nice. "Can we try the book again?" you ask. "And a shirt. I want a shirt. S'cold."
You give him your green henley, and the sleeves are so long they flop down over his hands, which is just about the cutest thing you ever saw. You offer him thermal leggings as well; you packed layers for serious cold, because you never know. As for you, boxers and t-shirt are fine since he's on the zipper side, blocking the draft. And being adorable. And huggable, and kissable, and "Arrrrgh, I like you so much, haha," and then you have to blow a raspberry on his neck.
You shriek with laughter and thrash, tangling up immediately in your loose clothes. You burrow down against his stomach, grabbing on to him with all arms and legs, then bite his side and attempt to blow a rasperry of your own. It goes fft, unsatisfyingly, and you give up to just lick him until it tickles.
