There's a pause, distracted, and then a rush of syllables, a low mishmash of dipthongs and consonant clusters, like a gurgling stream and tumbling rocks, that matches, somehow, an intensified version of the tones and cadence of his drawl.

"Fives. Fives, Fives, I can't think, you're so fucking beautiful. Get up on your knees for me - and tap the side of the bedframe, there's a pressure drawer, you deserve to be using actual nice lube, not that I wouldn't be happy to watch you lick your hand for, oh, I don't know, several months -"