Cehd'ra's first instinct to He Ming's complaint is to offer another apology. It is his fault they're both sore... The praise that follows surprises him and keeps the apology stuck in his throat. The miqo'te bows his head as He Ming kisses it, closing his eyes as a warmth fills him that has nothing to do with what He Ming's hands are doing. Though that is also nice.

"He Ming," he moans, soft and plaintive and touched, unsure how to articulate it beyond doing as much as he can to make the other feel just as good. Cehd'ra kisses his chest and then higher, licking at the exposed throat before dragging his teeth lightly over the skin. All of it, every touch and kiss, is so terribly gentle. Fingertips circle the smooth head of his cock, rubbing over the slit and smearing the precome that produces, polishing his cock with his palm while his tail gives a more eager flick behind him.