[Distressed as he sounds over what you're doing to him now, it's impossible for him to deny the fact that this is actually a turn on. And yes, he can feel you, perfectly and intimately, just as much as all it takes is a single glance into your eyes for him to reel back, overwhelmed by the amount of devotion and desire he can see in there, because he knows full well that he is, indeed, the cause of it.

Your fingers are tight and unrelenting in his hair, just as hard and solid as your body is against his own. The leather still bites around his wrist, markedly different from the humming of the rest of his skin. The air's too short and too hot in his lungs, and it stutters past his lips, which are bruised and swollen from your kisses. And then, there is your tongue on him, and the echo of your voice growling close to his ear.

His voice is a small, hushed, and desperate thing when he finally uses it, and it matches how broken he looks now. That would be your doing, and yours alone.]

I want you to keep pushing me like this. I don't care if it's rough. I don't care what you decide to take from me, or what you keep me from doing. I want you to bind me, hold me down, and fuck me until all I can do is cry out or say your name.

[And yes, as he feared, this little confession is ruining him, just like how every touch and gesture on your part has stripped him down completely.]