Rama’s determination is admirable, it always has been, and Crozier is beginning to realize he needs to throw or change the game, or else he’ll be on his knees all night. Very desirable in theory, being on his knees with Rama’s cock halfway down his throat, but absolutely a fantasy better suited to men who aren’t middle aged or named Francis Crozier.

He pulls his head back again, calloused pads of his fingers slowly tracing down the hard line of Rama’s iliac crest and through that tuft of coarse hair. “If you want to hold my head I’d let you,” he all but purrs. “All you need to do is look at me and smile.”