Rolf's hand gripped involuntarily at the back of John's shirt. The kiss broke, and the muscle's in the German's thighs tightened enough to make him shudder. He was finding it incredibly difficult not to let himself finish; his will to fight against it was slipping. He took a shallow breath, brushed his lips across Dawlish's once more and then let his forehead fall to the other man's shoulder.
He said something that didn't consist of words in any language. He pulled John as close as the angle of their bodies would allow, and then just let go. There was something so fantastic about how involved in this John was. It went so far beyond the grip and hold of his hand. Rolf could feel, in every superfluous stroke or touch, just how much Dawlish wanted to please him and so how could he hold out on him any longer? His hips rocked upwards into the warmth of the Auror's hand, and he moaned against the fabric of John's shoulder as he came.