Draco can't help it. There's that arrogance, that desire to pretend that he's good at this, that he knows what he's doing, but he can't help himself. There's that reprimand, and it flushes his face, the color caught by the soft light of the floating candlelight, and he nods, "I... yes, alright," he gaps, breathless, useless words, but that need to say something, give something. He tries to relax, to let his body ease into the pressure, but it's difficult to focus, moaning hard as Snape's teeth scrape against his nipple, tongue swirling against the damp flesh, earning another needy moan from pink parted lips.

His body eventually relaxes, gives, but there's a tension, as if he's having to fight it, having trouble keeping from tensing around the intrusion, the feeling that snaps his eyes wide. He's panting for breath, one hand curling tight in Snape's silky hair, the other sliding down against the side of his neck, resting against his shoulder. Gasps and moans stolen from his trembling mouth, his thighs spreading, hips pressing back against Snape's finger as it presses in.