It's cute, that Corbin just needs the barest suggestion and then he's moving like that. Quentin lets him set the pace for a second, let's him move just like that, back and forth, back and forth, between cock and palm, building something up. Quentin's sure it's overstimulating and glorious, wonderfully too much, but Corbin's not complaining--and even if he were, Quentin would shush him, tell him how wonderfully he's doing, and keep on.

After all, Quentin hasn't gotten his.

After a few minutes of just Corbin moving, Quentin pulls back as the boy rocks forward. He gets to the tip, almost pulls out. And as Corbin's starting to rock back, Quentin thrusts forward. It's hard and rough and a little mean, and Quentin tips his head back and groans.

He slaps Corbin's ass. Not hard, but enough that it jiggles for a second, a lovely sight. He repeats the slow, rough thrust on the next rock of Corbin's hips. "Fuck, baby," he sighs. "That's it."