Why Albus was still bothering to protest was beyond Gellert's ability to fathom. It was so obvious, to the both of them, he suspected, where this was going to end. Gellert's skin felt like nothing more than a thin wrapper to cover his nerve endings, all of which seemed to be sparking prematurely, anticipating touch, craving it.
"Who said I was playing games?" Gellert said, speaking too fast, eager to be done talking so that he could occupy his mouth with something other than words. As long as Gellert was talking, his lips could not drag along Albus's throat, or mark a path down his stomach, kiss along every inch of him.
Gellert closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, but that only succeeded in making the room feel as if it was spinning, light flashing behind his eyelids, heat pouring into his core.
Gellert's other hand crept along Albus's chest, thumb smoothing against the flat surface of the first button on his shirt. He was only restraining himself now for one reason, and that was because he wanted Albus to do it. He wanted Albus to be the one to make the first move, he always had -- for Albus to lose control and simply give over to the desire that Gellert knew flooded his body and mind.