Neither of their brains are operating on logic. Ginsberg's just too overwhelmed by how good everything feels, by the sheer wonderment at the fact that something has made him lapse into silence. He's watching Ned, even if Ned has his eyes closed, propped up on his elbows a little, unable to tear his eyes from him. It's not a sight he's ever seen before -- how could he avoid staring, even if there's a part of him that wants to squeeze his eyes shut and focus only on the sensations? He feels greedy, like he wants to get every possible ounce of enjoyment out of this, and the visual aspect of all of this is important, too.

He can't stay quiet, and he can't stay still, but he tries his hardest not to writhe around under Ned too much, not wanting to squirm to the point that it becomes distracting for Ned. When Ned pulls away, he's so close to the edge, teetering right there, that he gasps loudly, almost surprised at the sudden lack of sensation.

"I... I don't know," he says, not even trying not to stammer. "It just feels so... I wanna do what feels good for you, too. This isn't just about me. Shouldn't just be about me. I don't just want to be taking and not giving you anything in return."

It's obvious, from his near-frantic speech, that he's very worried about this possibility.