Andrew's every breath was full of Maxwell's spicy, tangy scent and taste. His nose and lips were wet with it, and with every breath, Andrew fell deeper and deeper into his desire.
He wanted to make a mess of Maxwell.
He was making a mess of Maxwell.
The poor omega under him was twitching, whimpering, leaking. He'd cum twice so far, his own cum painting his chest from where Andrew had bent him. Andrew'd almost cum once, but knew he couldn't. The only place he was allowed to cum was in or on Maxwell, not from where the tip of his cock was rubbing against the edge of the bed as he ate his husband from tip to tail.
So he held back, putting his attention into making sure every move he made had Maxwell's toes curling, his head tossed back, his throat tight as he fought against the pleasure. Lost in it.
