Jedao whines a little more; he stretches before he settles, and feels almost deliriously shameless about it.

"Fuck, okay," he mutters after a second, in which he realizes he's going to have to decide what to do with his legs. It's easy to drape his arms up over his head again; it takes an absurd act of will, under the circumstances, to spread his legs the way he does want to do. It'll mean he has less leverage to squirm from his core, and it feels deliciously, unbearably exposed. He closes his eyes and focuses on bringing his breathing back to something that can halfway fake calm.