It was glorious and horrible at once; oversensitised as he was, Viggo moving inside him - coming inside him - was absolutely overwhelming. Sean exhaled, trembling, as Viggo pulled back, as he slipped out and dropped onto his back and stared up at the cracked ceiling.
Sean's eyes were closed--they stayed that way for a moment longer, then slowly flickered open, fighting down the urge to leap headfirst into unconsciousness and stay there. Christian always left more or less straight after sex, and Sean had learnt perfectly well how to overcome his desire to sleep. He desired much more to be awake, to look once more into his lover's eyes, and touch him, and study his afterglow-smile before he was gone.
But he didn't think Viggo would go, and he still wanted to look into his face again.
"Viggo." It was a sleepy slur, and he pushed himself up a little higher, eyes half closed, pupils still blown, lips moist. "That were fantastic."
And he smiled an afterglow-smile, and reached up and brushed flat the other man's hair, and leant in close enough to kiss his lips. When his eyes closed again it was only for a moment, while he breathed him in; the scent of sex, the smell of Viggo's cologne, of the alcohol that still lingered on his breath, and on his own lips. He kissed him again, tasted it--and himself - a million different facets of himself - on Viggo's tongue.
"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to feel anything else again," he breathed. He was thrumming, filled with warmth, filled with pleasure, happily floating along in the wake of sensation.
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Sean's eyes were closed--they stayed that way for a moment longer, then slowly flickered open, fighting down the urge to leap headfirst into unconsciousness and stay there. Christian always left more or less straight after sex, and Sean had learnt perfectly well how to overcome his desire to sleep. He desired much more to be awake, to look once more into his lover's eyes, and touch him, and study his afterglow-smile before he was gone.
But he didn't think Viggo would go, and he still wanted to look into his face again.
"Viggo." It was a sleepy slur, and he pushed himself up a little higher, eyes half closed, pupils still blown, lips moist. "That were fantastic."
And he smiled an afterglow-smile, and reached up and brushed flat the other man's hair, and leant in close enough to kiss his lips. When his eyes closed again it was only for a moment, while he breathed him in; the scent of sex, the smell of Viggo's cologne, of the alcohol that still lingered on his breath, and on his own lips. He kissed him again, tasted it--and himself - a million different facets of himself - on Viggo's tongue.
"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to feel anything else again," he breathed. He was thrumming, filled with warmth, filled with pleasure, happily floating along in the wake of sensation.