Ned doesn't say anything in response to that, just laughs, breathlessly. He's certainly glad for the evidence that Ginsberg's enjoying himself both verbal and otherwise. Ned knows that it's only going to get better from here. He pauses, shifts Ginsberg's legs a fraction wider so that he can push even deeper. This tears a short groan out of Ned, and he can't seem to stop himself from making sound, all expletives and sharp inhalations and a stream of tiny compliments, how amazing Ginsberg feels, how perfect his skin is, how warm he is, how he's doing great.

The feeling of Ginsberg's nails pressing against his back doesn't bother Ned; he takes them as encouragement to keep going. Ned tries a few slightly different angles, waiting to hear what will elicit the best reaction and then sticking to that spot, relentlessly, drawing out the length of his thrusts, surging against the other man in a steady rhythm that makes the bed creak obscenely, but he doesn't care in the slightest.