It was sudden and jarring and good. Kavinsky whined and moaned through the last of it, uncaring about the bruises on his hips or how his voice filled up the room. He could feel it when it happened, the twitch and flooding pulse, the rough way that James buried himself and jerked into him a few more times to bury the mess of it. Kavinsky shivered, so desperately, achingly hard that he was barely coherent.

A part of him rather suspected that wasn't going to matter in a moment. James had paid up for the gun, Kavinsky had proved he was amenable to this sort of payment. They might or might not make negotiations for further exchanges in the future. His getting off was negligible to the situation, so he brought not attention to it.