[ There's certainly no fight or attempt to control or redirect Zevran's roaming hands; the slight shift and squirm of Dorian beneath him more helps than hinders, shoulder slipping free of the luxurious drape of black silk. There's usually a point where physical excitement shifts to outweigh the more mental hooks that tug his enthusiasm backward, and here, it begins early, with the sound of leather slipping through metal, and the feel of curious fingers seeking and finding warm skin.
And then Zevran's mouth, parting under his own. He buries a hand in the elf's hair, finding a firm handling high at the top of his neck, kissing him deeper with a bolder raking of teeth and tongue.
His other hand clasps at the other man's hip, gripping. ]
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And then Zevran's mouth, parting under his own. He buries a hand in the elf's hair, finding a firm handling high at the top of his neck, kissing him deeper with a bolder raking of teeth and tongue.
His other hand clasps at the other man's hip, gripping. ]