[ He feels her get wet against the damp of his own underwear. He's surprised by the kiss, actually jerks back, but slowly eases back down as he realizes that she isn't trying to get his face away. He tries mirroring what he does; he may not be a brainiac, but he can follow a lead when he sees one. He closes his eyes. It feels... Weird. Warm. Ishmael makes a small sound, and it sends thrills all the way down to his cock. He supposes that means it's a good kiss. ]

Why... the fuck... didn't you drop 'em... before you got so bloody close?

[ Heathcliff huffs, face flushed and cock hard, but he lifts her hips with both hands, then pulls her panties down before he can get in his head about it. He only realizes how hard he's breathing when his head starts spinning. The wet of her panties left a small, glistening smudge on the inside of her thigh. ]

Fuck. All right.

[ Suddenly, trying to keep from coming seems like insanity. He leans over her, gets his own underwear down and over his feet, then immediately tossed away and forgotten. Her skin against his cock feels... probably a better word than fine, but Heathcliff can't think of it. Thinking of bigger words to use is Faust's job. Yi Sang, if you want puns.

Those thoughts flow in and out of his head with no real beginning or end. He hikes up Ishmael's hips again, discovers it's easier to angle himself in the right place when her hips are higher, yanks a pillow to stick it under her ass. Okay. Learning a lot. Fuck. ]

You... need to tell me. Where it goes.

[ Heathcliff looks furious about this because he is. He doesn't know which part is which, or what goes where, and a lack of knowledge keeping him from what he wants makes him want to tear his hair out when what he wants is right there. And that's not even touching the fact that he has to admit this to Ishmael, of all people... but what else can he do? There's no one else to ask. She's the expert, here. ]

Don't fucking laugh. Don't you fucking laugh.