It's impossible not to smile back, difficult as it is to shape his mouth around biting teeth and hissing breath; it's a lopsided effort, quick and opening back up around a groan when Bodhi leans into the task and starts stripping his dick in earnest. There's a hit at the end of each stroke, like a coin dropping onto his stomach, over and over; the force of which pushes through him entirely and sinks down his spine.

And that's on top of seeing Bodhi in some kind of element, pleased with himself and utterly focused. It's that keen expression for a beloved subject turned on its head, turned up, passing between Jude's face and the precome glazing his dick and the curl of Bodhi's hand. Every push into that grip is a shuddering effort, his body made weak with pleasure, worked up from the moment they got in the door until there's nothing he can do but ride this out.

For Bodhi's sake, he does try to make it last; subsuming breaths, holding them back, blowing them out when holding them would push him over the edge. It takes minutes, instead of seconds, but eventually Jude's mouth drops, his expression closes into something wounded and there's a wordless babble of half-sounds cut off by teeth on his bottom lip. The hand at Bodhi's hip finds folds of fabric to grip, pulling at Bodhi's pants, and Jude feels something of the hot spurt on his stomach, a point of sensation on his twitching abdomen as he comes down from the high.