Fisher heard James the first time he said he was cumming. He heard him the second time, too, and neither time was going to deter him. Like the 'wanton sluts' of Penthouse Letters, Fisher loved the taste of cum. He wanted every drop of it.
Fisher barely had time to swallow James' jism when he was roughly grabbed and pulled to meet his mouth, the kiss salty and wet. His head was still swimming, his cock aching. That experience had been nothing short of amazing, and James apparently wanted more? Fisher didn't know how much more he could take at this rate. He was about to find out, though, as James' hand slid down his stomach and beneath the worn out elastic on his skivvies. He groaned desperately into the other man's mouth, pushing himself into James' hand. When James took a firm grip on him, he whimpered slightly, absolutely desperate for relief. James' mouth was warm and very experienced, and it made his touch that much more intense.
Kissing a trail from James' mouth to his ear, Fisher tried to keep himself under control. He didn't want to cum, not yet. This was too damn good to lose so fast. "Oh, God," he moaned into James' ear. "You've got my cock on fire." Fisher gently bit the hollow of his neck, savoring the sweet taste of his skin and the intoxication of his scent, a mix of cologne and liquid sex. "You don't have to do this," he whispered, just in case James felt obligated. Fisher would never ask him to do anything he was uncomfortable with, anything he didn't really want to do. But he really, really hoped he did.