Spock goes very, very still as Jim drags fingers through his slick and then—it is obscene, what Jim does. Filthy, but all he can do is watch with pupils blown wide. He wants and wants and wants, easily indicated in the way he snatches Jim's wrist to drag his tongue slowly from the swell of his palm to the tips of his fingers, a low, hungry noise shaking out of him even as he nods and scoots back to prop himself up enough so that Jim is able to continue to rock against him even as Spock mirrors Jim's previous actions to gather up some slick and lubricate his fingers.

"Continue so that I am also ready once you are. Breathe—"

That last is murmured as that same hand slips around Jim's back and then lower, slippery fingers brushing over his entrance but not quite pressing them into him yet. "I desire you deeply," he admits, "tell me when you are ready, but don't push yourself too hard. I intend to overwhelm you once you sit on my lok, but I will be unable to do so if you are ill-prepared."

A beat, and he adds: "I find that I desire to incur another noise complaint."