“So good,” Gareth murmured. “Help us out, a bit, here? That trick you do with the—”
Even before he finished, his fingers, his hand, Lorre’s body, were slicker, gliding. Lorre could conjure up—and also clean up—oils and ointments and lotions; this fact had come in very handy on many occasions.
He pressed fingers in, delving, stroking. Lorre moaned and squirmed in place and opened up at his touch, looser, easier. Gareth was pretty sure that was being helped a bit by sorcery as well—his magician could shapeshift, after all—but that was a clue to Lorre’s eagerness, so it made him smile.
He played with Lorre that way for a while too, fingers working in him and thrusting and finding that spot; he stroked Lorre’s c**k with the other hand, until Lorre cried out his name, back arching, coming ag
