His freer ankle hooks behind Durge's waist to keep him there, to do some of the holding while he's freed a hand to...honestly, another unexpected but appreciated delight. Enver doesn't need to be touched in the strictest sense. Not while the whole of that Chosen's lustful force is splitting him open and hammering at his core. But it is yet another way to have more of him, and with the note of near desperation in his movements and gasps as this mounts, the human is not so much greedy for him as on the edge of starving.

They find a rhythm soon enough, every undulation met with equal force and coaxed onward. It is perfection.

He does eventually have to disengage his lips to get in a full gulp of air, but the cry that comes with it has nothing to batten it down. Not pride or fear of discovery. It bursts forward with the same violent need to breathe as the man that wields it and at first can only form into one overwhelmed "Yes!"

But his mouth comes back for more, even as kissing does little to contain moans, deep and consuming but shorter. To give him moments to take in oxygen. To plead.

Just like that.

Don't stop.