[Unsure what to expect when he sees the other's lips part for what looks like more than a breath, tension and relief's contrast surges when nothing comes of it. Whatever was going to be said doesn't have to be dealt with, but there's still something there.
Pressed firmly against his chest, Greed's hand feels his heartbeat; was he always this worked up before a slightly rough round? He doesn't have it in him to tell the other to relax or to try to soothe him. His touch moves up his collarbone, tempted to grab his face and demand the other look at him, damn it; but there's no special reason for that, is there? No important one, anyway. Instead, his hand pushes the opened shirt down Klavier's shoulder. The hand on the desk above his shoulder slips beneath the blonde's neck, fingertips teasing his hairline as his weight sinks onto his forearm. His tongue laps up the line of a tendon in his neck before his lips find a hammering pulse and attack it as fiercely as he did his lips.
Once the shirt is pushed as far down on one side as he can make it go with its wearer pinned on his back, Greed's hand rakes down his side, getting faster, slowly giving in to the urge to be quick and possessive rather than methodical and exacting. He still resists the urge to go right for his pants, slipping behind him and fingering the line of his spine towards the small of his back, encouraging him to lift his hips as his own weight sinks down between his spread legs.]
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Pressed firmly against his chest, Greed's hand feels his heartbeat; was he always this worked up before a slightly rough round? He doesn't have it in him to tell the other to relax or to try to soothe him. His touch moves up his collarbone, tempted to grab his face and demand the other look at him, damn it; but there's no special reason for that, is there? No important one, anyway. Instead, his hand pushes the opened shirt down Klavier's shoulder. The hand on the desk above his shoulder slips beneath the blonde's neck, fingertips teasing his hairline as his weight sinks onto his forearm. His tongue laps up the line of a tendon in his neck before his lips find a hammering pulse and attack it as fiercely as he did his lips.
Once the shirt is pushed as far down on one side as he can make it go with its wearer pinned on his back, Greed's hand rakes down his side, getting faster, slowly giving in to the urge to be quick and possessive rather than methodical and exacting. He still resists the urge to go right for his pants, slipping behind him and fingering the line of his spine towards the small of his back, encouraging him to lift his hips as his own weight sinks down between his spread legs.]