Gellert felt the last threads of his self-control snap the moment their lips met, and on the heels of that break came the smugness of having gotten exactly what he wanted, and just behind that another surge of lust strong enough so as to be nearly overpowering. He grasped Albus's face between both hands, kissing him with a ferocity to match Albus's own.
His hips arched forward, seeking contact and pressure, grinding against Albus's pelvis in a rough, demanding motion. One of Gellert's hands abandoned Albus's cheek for the sole purpose of grasping one of his belt loops and dragging them closer together. And Gellert applied himself to the task of giving Albus every pleasure he could possibly imagine. It was a sick sort of urge, probably, that Gellert so very much wanted Albus to hate himself after this. He wanted to yank up each and every last memory of the two of them, and then every depraved fantasy on top of that, weaving together love and lust and guilt and regret into some sort of masterpiece.
Gellert realised he had bitten down too hard on Albus's lip, had drawn blood. But there was no time for apologies -- Gellert was already unbuttoning Albus's shirt with feverish haste, fingers claiming Albus's bare skin as it was revealed, touching all of him that he could reach.