There's a snarl, deep and resonating, when York pulls like that. It's sharp, like nails on the back. It digs in like heels on his hips, and he turns his nails in against York's scalp as his head thuds back against the metal frame behind him.

Just like that. Harder, faster. It might not be sex but it incites the blood in the same way, the same urge and need, the thirst for it. York is more tender than he would be, but he takes it just the same.

And then.

"...enough..."