[There's a quiet, barely audible laugh at Lance's startled reaction, like Matt literally didn't just come from the barest touch. But he doesn't tease aloud, just slips his fingers free, slower, stroking at the inside of Lance's thigh, gentle and soothing, murmuring quiet nonsense, remembering how intense and overwhelming that first climax is with new anatomy, new sensations.
He also remembers that feeling of craving more, of desperately trying to ride his own fingers, as many as he could stand, as deep and hard as he could manage, sobbing and gushing wet and helpless over his own hand, chasing that fullness, that fulfillment. It wouldn't come with just the two of them, that much he knows.
But for now the chafe of sand on his back has gone from comfortable to annoying, and there's warm water just there (too warm, there's an odd overprotective concern about what the human concubines can stand, something Thace once explained, brow furrowed, as you have no fur, you must be so cold all the time). So Matt carefully wiggles free, ignoring the throb between his own legs, that ever-present hunger for more. He can wait.]
Come here? [It's not a command, more enticing, just this side of seductive. Matt's shrugged off his robe, waded in up to his waist, shivering contentedly at the lukewarm water washing away the now-unpleasant stickiness of his inner thighs. It's a bit of a shock to where he's aching and wanting, but this way Lance won't be able to see if he ever-so-casually slides his hand between his legs, soothes some of that hunger himself.
...not that he's subtle. He's ducked down so the water's up to his shoulders, where his hair is falling loose and tangled from the braid, floating around him, clinging in soft rings to the subtle swell of his breasts when he straightens up a little and beckons, smiling.] You look like you need to cool down a little.
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He also remembers that feeling of craving more, of desperately trying to ride his own fingers, as many as he could stand, as deep and hard as he could manage, sobbing and gushing wet and helpless over his own hand, chasing that fullness, that fulfillment. It wouldn't come with just the two of them, that much he knows.
But for now the chafe of sand on his back has gone from comfortable to annoying, and there's warm water just there (too warm, there's an odd overprotective concern about what the human concubines can stand, something Thace once explained, brow furrowed, as you have no fur, you must be so cold all the time). So Matt carefully wiggles free, ignoring the throb between his own legs, that ever-present hunger for more. He can wait.]
Come here? [It's not a command, more enticing, just this side of seductive. Matt's shrugged off his robe, waded in up to his waist, shivering contentedly at the lukewarm water washing away the now-unpleasant stickiness of his inner thighs. It's a bit of a shock to where he's aching and wanting, but this way Lance won't be able to see if he ever-so-casually slides his hand between his legs, soothes some of that hunger himself.
...not that he's subtle. He's ducked down so the water's up to his shoulders, where his hair is falling loose and tangled from the braid, floating around him, clinging in soft rings to the subtle swell of his breasts when he straightens up a little and beckons, smiling.] You look like you need to cool down a little.