"Very good," Tseng says, on the verge of breathlessness. He is sure now that Rufus will follow his direction, which is all the cue he needs to drop a hand down his back, let it sink into the curve of his ass and grasp tightly. His grip pulls Rufus open wider, lets him rock Rufus's body into every resounding slam of his cock.

He keeps his gaze intent upon Rufus's face, but he is no stranger now to what Rufus wants. The back-bending, bone-rattling roughness of his thrusts are a start while Rufus slips away beneath the vice grip Tseng has on his throat. But not too much, not just yet—soon, his grip on Rufus's neck relents, his thrusts slow, and he sweeps his hand over Rufus's cheek, commanding him to, "Breathe."