Draco needs it slow. At least here, now, this time. It's not too much, but fast would be. Despite his interest, his want, his desire, there's still only so much he can take. He shivers, a soft flushed gasp as Snape presses a kiss to soft skin and rolls his hips, working his length into Draco's slender body. He's sinking in, Malfoy's body far more accepting that initially, his blue eyes wide, lips parted, but his body is more or less relaxed.

His eyes flick to Snape's dark hues as that hand pushes at his elbow, guiding his arm above his head. There's a soft, timid jerk that isn't about discomfort, about this. Instead it's about how fingertips drag over that scar of his dark mark, and there's a flush to his face that says no one had touched it. Not since then. Not since it was black and livid and a symbol of Voldemort's power on his flesh. He tilts his head, baring his neck a bit more, trying to silently communicate that this is okay.

More than okay, honestly. There's a thrill, a breathlessness from the feeling of fingers wound around his wrist, holding him down, holding him in place as his other hand still clings to Snape's shoulders. He moans softly, and slowly, haltingly, rolls his hips a little, soft and experimental as his still getting used to the intensity of the feeling. So much heat, so much friction, so much of everything.