Every rough touch, every press of teeth, it all only twists Bobo further, drawing up the desires and lusts he's buried for so long. Desires that leave him panting, writhing more than bucking as he tries to give as good as he gets.

Nails on Vasquez's shoulders, all teeth and tongue in the kiss. Then his hands dropping, catching on the waistband of his trousers, tugging and pulling, needing to touch and feel and take as much as he makes no effort to break away, to end the sensation of strong, calloused hands against him.

Groaning at those words, finding pleasure in their play as his head cants, dipping, biting and licking and suckling against his skin.

"So fucking close," he murmurs, finding himself desperate to mark flesh, feeling salt burning the cut on his lip and loving it.