That promise, and Enver knows it is one; he feels himself whetting his lips. His forehead falls against the wall again, breath ragged, biting back and resisting the urge to cover his mouth like he did before. He's still being manipulated from behind but the palm slowly keeping his cock awake but coaxing it no nearer to flagging vanishes and he feels a chill of the sudden neglect, enough to coax a whimper from his throat, even as he can hear why that hand has left him, and in a moment he feels that heat touch him, and it's everything he can do not to push into those fingers more insistently.

But then as much as he relishes fingers already and would be undone by any desire to test how many more he could take, would gladly and not-quietly take, he's not prepared for a different third to not take their place, but intimate joining them. As much as it feels like too much, he needs.

Can he resist? No, he doesn't believe he can.

Can be stop himself from screaming?

He tries to quiet his voice, even his sighs, be still. But his breaths are shallow with anticipation, his everything tense.

"I won't," he utters at last, his voice suggesting both assurance and challenge at once.