It's about the illusion of losing control as much as the actual restraint of it. Krem writhed, wrists caught above his head like that; he fucked himself back against the movement of John's hips and whined softly around the attention of his fingers. Every time John slowed or lightened the touch or glanced at him with a curiosity in his eyes, Krem wanted to swear, wanted to grab at him.

Instead, he nudged at him with his knees, let himself be noisy and needful. He stretched up a little to catch John's mouth in a bruising kiss, bit at his lip slightly. It would be nice to have his hands free, to grab at John, to grab at himself and help show him what he knew he liked. All he could do was squirm and press toward each touch, hoping the point came across.