"So I noticed," he answered, hips jerking against Daniel's in turn. He couldn't help it (and for an instant, he wasn't sure if that was his own desire, something he'd done to Daniel, some kind of pheromones he'd developed in becoming a succubus, going straight to his cock), nor could he help the moan that followed as his head brushed against that tight, wet slit (the thought evaporated, he didn't care). "And Christ, you're beautiful."
Not that he wasn't before, not even with the dick and in the absence of tits, but the change he'd gone through only seemed to turn him on more. He wanted him, so much so that he could forego making him convince him to fuck him as he originally planned. So much so that without further comment, he moved a hand to one of Daniel's thighs, helping, nudging it up, around his hips or at least out of the way, and without preamble, sunk into him.
He dropped his head to his shoulder, whimpering. "Fuck. You -- God."
His hips bucked of their own accord again as the words died in his throat, and giving up on them a second time, he shifted to kiss him shakily. Distantly, he wondered if Daniel could, would feed on him, on his sex as he started moving against him frantically, fucking over any other descriptor of the act again. A part of him hoped he could. He wanted to feel that, perhaps masochistically, as much as he wanted to feel Daniel come again, and he slid a hand up to brush his chest, one horn, hoping it would help speed along one, the other, or both.
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Not that he wasn't before, not even with the dick and in the absence of tits, but the change he'd gone through only seemed to turn him on more. He wanted him, so much so that he could forego making him convince him to fuck him as he originally planned. So much so that without further comment, he moved a hand to one of Daniel's thighs, helping, nudging it up, around his hips or at least out of the way, and without preamble, sunk into him.
He dropped his head to his shoulder, whimpering. "Fuck. You -- God."
His hips bucked of their own accord again as the words died in his throat, and giving up on them a second time, he shifted to kiss him shakily. Distantly, he wondered if Daniel could, would feed on him, on his sex as he started moving against him frantically, fucking over any other descriptor of the act again. A part of him hoped he could. He wanted to feel that, perhaps masochistically, as much as he wanted to feel Daniel come again, and he slid a hand up to brush his chest, one horn, hoping it would help speed along one, the other, or both.