[ Riddle's not so strong that he could keep from stilling for even a moment. The hard grip on his waist makes him stop moving, to pause, his breath catching. His body felt so full with Floyd so deep inside of him. Being made to sit still for even a moment made that so obvious to him, so overwhelming of a feeling even without moving at all.

He's not going to complain about the other taking time to undress, though. His one hand now presses against his bare shoulder, shaky fingers pressing in directly against him, nails poised to dig in.

Floyd would find that it's not a difficult task to pull his hand away from his mouth, to draw it over to his own. Riddle doesn't exactly try to stop him or keep his hand pressed over his mouth....

Which is a good thing, because it means the moment Floyd rolls his hips, there's nothing to muffle the downright whorish moan that slips out, the little cry, and the whine that follows. ]

You better not. [ His hand is juuuust close enough to Floyd's face that he can push at his cheek, to squirm in protest at those words. ] My mouth is not dirty -- all it is are the thoughts that come with this damned Heat. They... don't mean anything.

[ But they do. They do, because how else would they be so easily spilling from his lips? ]