"Shut up." "Make me." You say the final word with defiance, your chin raised and your cold eyes meeting his as he weighs his options. He could make you shut up -- in many ways, might he add -- or he could play this little game of yours. He could tease you, he could bite you, he could get you hot and bothered before you got him the same way. Or, he could take you on immediately, grabbing your wrist and pulling you close and crushing his lips to yours, effectively shushing you, getting your eyelids to flutter against his and your body to mold perfectly with him. It could be fun, it could be dangerous -- but more importantly, he really did want his lips on you, all of you, pleasing you.
"Stop." "Make me." With this being said, you turn to him and shake your head, placing your hands on your hips in a way that says 'I'm not playing this game with you, not now'. He raises his eyebrows, beckons you closer with a flick of his tongue against his pink lips. He's not stopping, and he really wants you to step closer and try with all your might to get him to cut it out. He continues to run his fingers through his hair, showing the way his long and slender hands curls and unfurls, like it was already on your body, sliding down and down, closer to the inside of your thigh. This is a game, his favorite game, and he won't stop touching himself until you do it yourself.
"Shut up." "Make me." Wanting to laugh it off, you start to wave it his statement off with a flick of the hand, but he's being serious. He wants you, now, and he's getting hot and bothered and he really needs something to cool him down. He needs your lips on him, around him, sucking him off or teasing him with your tongue. He needs something, anything, something to get him from talking, yet moaning and whimpering instead. He wants you to make him shut up and have something else to talk about... how you feel, how you taste, how good you make him ache. Do something, anything, and get him hot and sweaty and panting under your touch. He wants it.
"Stop." "Make me." You turn your head towards him, watching as he licks his lips after he speaks in a low, husky voice. You realize that he does want you to make him stop -- he wants you to try your best until you get frustrated and hot, until you bounce on your toes and nearly attack him with your mouth. He wants to play this little game with you, get you all riled up, and get you on the bed without your clothes, to his mercy and his own rules. He's not going to stop now and he won't stop then. He likes the color of red dancing up on your neck and he likes getting you bothered. He wants you and he wants you soon, so he's going to need to get you warm and sweaty and sticky.
"Shut up." "Make me." It's the gleam in his eyes that really get your attention after you tell him to make you shut up. It kind of makes your tummy quiver, your knees shake (wanting to give out from underneath your body) and your eyes go wide, knowing how he never backs down from a challenge. He crosses to your side of the room in less than three long strides, his hands gripping your waist, his force backing you down onto the bed. His eyes smolder, his lips pulled up in a smirk, his gaze always down on your lips. "I think I might," he whispers, close to your face, "Right now." And then he kisses you deep to make your toes curl, and you have nothing else left to say.