The more conscious he gets, the more he realizes that he feels just really, really good. It feels like a full-body purr, like someone set him out in the fresh spring sunshine and let him take it in until he's more made of lazy warmth than he is of flesh and blood. He, for once in his life (his lives) is not in a rush. Doesn't want to push. Doesn't want to struggle.
He is aware, very, of his hips, his chest rising and falling, the length of his legs. Very aware, once he shifts position a little, of how he can press his wet (of course he's wet) cunt against Burr's thigh, not urgently, just because he likes it.
Is this what heat is supposed to feel like? Could he have had this all along? He doesn't feel like he's out of his mind with it, doesn't feel the way he's seen other omegas look -- feverish and wretched unless they were being knotted, outright begging in need. This is just pleasant. There is no particular pleasure, nothing so intense that it can't be disregarded, just a harmony and ease that he isn't sure he's ever felt, except in the sweetest of times with Eliza.
His fingers curl around his own length, not fully hard, and he holds himself, massages with his fingertips, draws his thumb over the head. Not even opening his eyes, not for more than brief glances. He bites Burr's thumb, gently, because he likes the way it feels between his teeth.
Burr's words send a rush of those tingles all along him, and his eyes definitely open now, dark and hungry. He realizes that he's arched up in pleasure, just a bit, shivering in satisfaction. He must be pretty; Burr said so. Burr has every reason not to say so, and Burr said so.
The idea of Burr's eyes on him is powerful, and this is the first thing that really stirs him to movement. He slides off Burr's lap and twists around, swinging a leg over him so he's straddling Burr's hips.
"I feel good," he says, with a little frown, and if he sounds still a little bewildered at that, who can blame him? For someone who is accustomed to the endless drum-beat of ambition, keep going, keep going, non-stop, this laziness is a foreign country. He finds he's displaying himself, spine straight and shoulders back, a proud carriage; his fingers comb through his hair, gently falling over his shoulder. He likes how Burr looks at him. "I feel like I can breathe." Like his rib cage has loosened two settings, something heavy and tight at his breastbone abruptly released.
And, in an incredulous tone: "I like this." He likes it very, very much.
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He is aware, very, of his hips, his chest rising and falling, the length of his legs. Very aware, once he shifts position a little, of how he can press his wet (of course he's wet) cunt against Burr's thigh, not urgently, just because he likes it.
Is this what heat is supposed to feel like? Could he have had this all along? He doesn't feel like he's out of his mind with it, doesn't feel the way he's seen other omegas look -- feverish and wretched unless they were being knotted, outright begging in need. This is just pleasant. There is no particular pleasure, nothing so intense that it can't be disregarded, just a harmony and ease that he isn't sure he's ever felt, except in the sweetest of times with Eliza.
His fingers curl around his own length, not fully hard, and he holds himself, massages with his fingertips, draws his thumb over the head. Not even opening his eyes, not for more than brief glances. He bites Burr's thumb, gently, because he likes the way it feels between his teeth.
Burr's words send a rush of those tingles all along him, and his eyes definitely open now, dark and hungry. He realizes that he's arched up in pleasure, just a bit, shivering in satisfaction. He must be pretty; Burr said so. Burr has every reason not to say so, and Burr said so.
The idea of Burr's eyes on him is powerful, and this is the first thing that really stirs him to movement. He slides off Burr's lap and twists around, swinging a leg over him so he's straddling Burr's hips.
"I feel good," he says, with a little frown, and if he sounds still a little bewildered at that, who can blame him? For someone who is accustomed to the endless drum-beat of ambition, keep going, keep going, non-stop, this laziness is a foreign country. He finds he's displaying himself, spine straight and shoulders back, a proud carriage; his fingers comb through his hair, gently falling over his shoulder. He likes how Burr looks at him. "I feel like I can breathe." Like his rib cage has loosened two settings, something heavy and tight at his breastbone abruptly released.
And, in an incredulous tone: "I like this." He likes it very, very much.