[His breath hitches as the fabric starts to move, that barely-there brush of cloth in combination with the hard, fast thrusts. He tries to stifle a whine - doesn't quite succeed, hips working to press him back against Rye]

[His face is flushed dark from listening to what Rye's saying; he ducks his head, and bites down on his lip, and just breathes for a second or two]

God, that's - please. I need - m-more -