[ That gets a laugh from Dorian; understated, dry, quiet, a little wavery thanks to that most tempting intimacy nuzzled against him. The feeling of that deep bass voice against his skin. The word choice of strong settles in him like a weight, not unpleasantly. ]

Speaking of silver and silk, did anyone ever wax just as poetic about your tongue?

[ Half-hard from the attentions now mapped in red bruises on skin that's retained a little of its brownness from the desert sun, Dorian teases his nails down the ridges he found in the base of Bull's horns, that had made him growl ever so. ]

What of you, and handling roughly. Whether in doing the handling [ his fingers curl, an indicative tug ] or being handled?