No more flirtatious banter, no more words. Rayne adjusting their position is the only reprieve he gets before he kicks into high gear. Cater's face twists, eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed as he's fucked into the desk, huffing and puffing and moaning with each slap of their bodies together. Behind his back, Cater's fingers clench tight. There's just a slight edge of pain to it, due to Rayne's inexperience, but Cater doesn't tell him to stop--doesn't want him to stop.

It feels too good, even with the discomfort. The sounds they're making, from their breathing to their bodies to the clattering of the desk against the wall only serves to funnel pleasure straight into his cock. There's nothing romantic about it, just straight stimulation against his prostate, shocking his nerves. Cater's harsh moans taper into a whimper as he feels an orgasm punch out of him, shooting against his thighs.