“Oh, Valar... ”
Elrohir’s back arched sharply, his body straining against the strong hands that gripped his widespread legs, pressing him into the mattress.
The wicked tongue made no response, continuing its tortuously slow movements.
Swirl, swipe, thrust.
Swirl, swipe, thrust.
His aching hands slid from the headboard, slipping down to tangle in the silken ebony mane that teased his quivering thighs. At once an amused warning sounded in his pleasure-addled mind.
No hands, ‘Roh. Or I shall stop.
Elrohir loosened his grip slightly, raising his head to meet his brother’s gaze, now midnight dark and bottomless. “Really?” he rasped, one thumb sweeping the curve of a hidden ear.
A sensual smile curled Elladan’s lips as he moved to cover the elf-knight’s body with his own.
“Nay.”