Gellert moved easily in Albus's arms, Albus's mind still trying to piece itself back together. And he knew what Gellert was doing, what he wanted. He offered no resistance; the progression was too familiar, and his legs rather content to practically give out beneath him. His senses still hummed. A bit locked into a pattern, he couldn't help but fixate on what came next, on the fact that Gellert hadn't finished, and that Albus still possessed a reckless want for it.
Prior to the opening of his second piece of luggage, Albus's thoughts had been carefully marshaled, almost relentlessly chaste. Now it seemed as though his mind was attempting to compensate for years of such discipline. With one facet of desire sated, he felt compelled to move on to the next. It was as if this had had no beginning, and would have no end.
But something snagged. For a moment he couldn't understand it at all, couldn't sort out why he felt so tethered. On a superficial level, he realised it was his hair; but that wasn't the true cause of the restless gnawing beneath his skin. No, it was the sudden lack of contact, of anything at all against his skin. His hands found Gellert's hips, drawing him a bit closer, only to find himself still restrained, and by Gellert's own hand, curiously enough.
Albus's hazy eyes rose to Gellert's, something beneath their murky, molten blue sharpening, honing in on some awareness. It was conceivable that Gellert simply was pausing, to appreciate something. Conceivable, but unlikely something so simple as that.
"Do you expect me to beg, Gellert?" he wondered, hardly needing an actual answer, his voice hushed enough to mostly mask how rough his throat felt. Even as he spoke, however, his eyes had fallen to Gellert's cock. Begging, he supposed, wasn't wholly beyond the realm of possibility.