It's that slow, smooth movement of swallowing him down that finally earns him a moan. It leaves his lips unbidden as that heat surrounds him, slick and wet, and watching York work is incredible to behold.

The urge is there, to thrust, to take his mouth until he's found completion, but he didn't live this long without some sense of restraint when needed. He's doing just fine on his own, and if Locus needs to participate, he settles for kneading his fingers along the nape of his neck, spreading his thighs a little further to accommodate.