Rowan's fingers didn't stay polite for long. He tugged at the laces of Soren's trousers, impatient, until the front gave enough for his hand to slip inside. Warm fingers wrapped directly around Soren's bare cock, skin to skin, and both men sucked in a sharp breath at the same time.
"Shit—" Soren's head tipped back for a second. The heat of Rowan's palm, the rough drag of calloused fingers, the way the younger man squeezed just right — it was too much and not enough all at once.
Rowan smirked against his neck, stroking him slowly from base to tip, thumb smearing the bead of precome already gathering there.
"Your turn," he whispered, guiding Soren's hand with his free one. He pushed Soren's fingers past the waistband of his own pants and underclothes until Soren's palm met hot, hard flesh.
Soren's fingers closed around him almost automatically.
