He feels that sharp snap all the way up his spine, a jolt of pleasure that steals an even louder moan from him than before. He'd like to think that if he were a little more sober, he'd be trying to be a little quieter for the sanity of his neighbors. But it actually has nothing to do with how drunk he is, and everything to do with who's doing this to him.

Raylan looks unbearably good-- hair falling into lust darkened eyes, muscles tense where he holds Tim against the couch. Firm and in control in that way Tim craves, but typically struggles to submit to for lack of trust. But that's obviously no concern with Raylan.

"Fuck." He has nothing smart to say to that, because the idea of Rachel looking across the office at him sideways every time he shifts uncomfortably in his chair is thrilling, and the euphoria that Raylan drives through his body with hard thrust is all-consuming. One hand drops between them, curling fingers around his own length to stroke in time with Raylan's movements.