"Yes," he moans, reaching belatedly to set the bottle down on the floor because he couldn't care less about where the stopper went, and then there's nothing else, nothing other than Glitch taking up his focus, all his senses.

Every scant inch of movement is perfection incarnate. It couldn't get any better than this, it couldn't, there's no way. "Glitch."

And then he's moving, and holding on to Glitch's hips for dear life, and he was so wrong. It's better, and getting better every last brush of skin, every slide in and out, and he's moaning out loud.