"Arion," Dean managed again, and this time it wasn't a warning. It was a plea he refused to label.
Arion's mouth paused against his skin. He didn't answer immediately. His breath warmed the spot under Dean's ear, and his thumb stilled for one heartbeat of complete control, as if he were giving Dean space to pull away.
It took Dean's panicked mind a second to realize what that was.
A choice.
Arion lifted his head just enough to murmur, voice low and wrecked, "Tell me to stop."
Dean's throat tightened.
He should. He knew he should.
The word sat on the tip of his tongue, ready, sensible, and responsible.
And then Arion's mouth returned to his throat, and Dean's body answered in a way that made the word 'responsible' evaporate.
Arion's scent deepened, vetiver thickening, sliding warm through the room, but it remained controlled. Dean felt the effort of it, the discipline straining, and it did something dangerous to him: it made him want to reward it.
