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Edrington lay sprawled on the chaise, his hand on his thigh, dangerously close to the object of Archie's attention. His thumb swept along the length of said object, the deep blue of Kennedy's eyes following the slow movement. "Come here, Mr. Kennedy." There is nothing in the tone but an expectation of being obeyed, and Edrington is not disappointed as Kennedy closes the space separating them and sinks down to his knees in front of the chaise. Edrington's fingers tug the hem of his nightshirt up, exposing himself to Kennedy's eyes and the sweep of his tongue. Archie splays his hand on Edrington's thigh as he lowers his head, his breath warm as it ghosts across the hard flesh held fast in his other hand. "Here I am, my Lord." "And there, Mr. Kennedy," Edrington's hand rests on Kennedy's head for a moment, before guiding it down, feeling himself swallowed into the heat of Kennedy's mouth, "you'll stay."
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