[ Fingernails scratch over belt buckle, over the rough fabric of trousers, finding the shape of Bull's cock through it and not doing very much about it save to goad him in the same way words are shaped to.

Words he still has, but they're distractable, rough in his throat. ]

This, inside me, every inch. Leaving me ruined, exhausted, dripping, insensible. Finish me off and then take what you've earned until you're satisfied.

[ His hand strays, winding fingers around his own cock, and the next low sound he makes is pushed more deliberately past his teeth. ]

That is, of course, if I don't see to things myself--