Ned's head is spinning with a delightful kind of vertigo. "You can k-keep going," he exhales, even though he's shuddering hard at every one of those light touches to his chest, the entire surface of his skin feeling hypersensitive to touch. But he doesn't care; he wants Ginsberg to keep moving. "I don't mind."

In an effort to encourage him, Ned shifts his hips back against Ginsberg's, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep in a whimper. It's almost too much to bear, too intense, but part of him kind of likes it. "Just do what you like," he says, and while the words themselves might sound passive or self-sacrificing, there's a heat and hunger behind them that Ned doubts Ginsberg will miss.