[By the time Shiro's hand slips down, warm and roughened and gentle, Matt's head is heavy with blind, instinctive wanting. His heartbeat is throbbing where he's so sensitive it hurts -- sore on his chest, thick and slippery between his legs, pulsing under Shiro's lips against his neck. The fingers curling between his slick thighs makes him wobble forward, knees buckling a little from the urge to drop down, present himself, offer himself up to the stallion.
Shiro. It's Shiro, he's huge and beautiful and dizzying, but he's still Shiro. Matt's hands are trembling, but they find the ridges of muscle, Shiro's abdomen and chest, cross-crossed with scars. He strokes over them, with a sort of reverent awe, arching his back and pressing closer.]
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Shiro. It's Shiro, he's huge and beautiful and dizzying, but he's still Shiro. Matt's hands are trembling, but they find the ridges of muscle, Shiro's abdomen and chest, cross-crossed with scars. He strokes over them, with a sort of reverent awe, arching his back and pressing closer.]
You smell so good...