Raylan knows exactly what he's doing. That much was made evident from last night, but it's far more clear in the sober light of day. That intuitiveness clearly lends itself to something more than just narrowly avoiding being shot. And a part of Tim already knew Raylan had to be good in bed -- the long list of women he'd gotten himself into trouble with in the short time they've known each other proves that. But it's another thing to experience it, the way Raylan seems to intrinsically know how to fuck him just right.

Tim's moans don't lessen. They only get louder, more continuous, punctuated by grunts each time those hips snap forward. It's relentless and intense and entirely all-consuming, and Tim knows he's going to plunge over that edge far faster than he wants to. The one hand stays firmly planted against the headboard, which has started to thump against the wall behind it, and he makes a vague mental note to move it forward a few inches. For next time. There has to be a next time.

The other hand stays tangled in Raylan's hair, not pulling or pushing but simply gripping like it's an anchor. He doesn't feel like he can let go without fully drowning in the pleasure, certainly not long enough to touch himself. Ultimately, he doesn't think he's going to need to. Not with the way Raylan's rhythmically pounding into that spot and his own length catches between their stomachs occasionally. He can feel that raw, tight heat building quick and steady in his core.