The permission to say "no" is there -- necessary for two people so accustomed to formulating their interactions through moves and countermoves that were not always completely straightforward. Caught up in a flurry of rushing sensations of lust that leave him weak at the knees but still determined to stay upright, shaking and channeling so much effort into containing himself however he can, it's all a losing battle, and telling the Dark Urge to "stop" might very well have been a lifeline.

He feels the press of that face against him, those lips in his hair, tendrils of that mask, the hot intake of air, of the man breathing him in and he gently leans into it, suppresses most of a sound, turns his head. He wants nothing more in the moment to taste him, not so simple a venture from this position.

And a promise of what is to come if this continues, a dull roar of a building fire, sound and thought sending electric shocks of sensation downward.

He won't beg. He wants to. Debase himself even more than he is already, lose himself in the ecstasy of it, and he will. But not beg. Not for him to go on.

If the demand is for him to command it all to stop, then he knows his answer: he won't.

"And what of yours, wolf?" There's too much of a moan for that to come out a seamless purr as he pushes back and tightens.

He wants so much more but he could fuck himself on his fingers all night listening to him.