It was too much, the way Gellert seemed lost for a moment in the sensation of touching him. Nearly every one of Albus's thoughts were blotted out by the awareness of how close Gellert's lips were. By the fact that Gellert would have him-- that Gellert wanted him, and the ravenous demand howling through him.
"Isn't it always a game?" he couldn't help asking, the words slipping past his lips as his sense snapped and he dragged Gellert closer still, claiming his lips with a possessiveness that felt too familiar. Albus simply didn't know how to kiss Gellert as if he didn't have every right to anymore. It seemed imperative, essential, absolutely vital, to have his mouth against Gellert's. He didn't bother with chaste or entreating. There was solid, nearly entitled demand, underscoring his kiss.
Part of him felt as if he was holding his breath, waiting for a miserable sort of shame or conviction to come crashing over him, that would compel his hands to push himself away from Gellert. None came. The searing want within him, however, burned brighter. The hand at Gellert's neck dove into his hair. Moaning against Gellert's mouth as he released his restraint of Gellert's wrist, Albus couldn't help feeling as if he'd been in this place before-- where he knew that his clearer mind would object, would balk, but being entirely unable to care.