Jim can't bite back the whine that crawls up his throat when Spock pins him down, but at least he doesn't complain, nor does he try to move again. Which, for the record, is a small feat when Spock's hand wraps even tighter around his neck. His mouth hangs open and he feels a heady rush when he tries and fails completely to draw breath into his lungs, knuckles white as he fists his hands even tighter than before.

He doesn't know where he gets the presence of mind not to buck his hips against Spock's hand, but the fact that he doesn't drives him mad. He's rock hard already, aching and desperate for any kind of relief, and Spock presses and cups him with just enough presence to offer a bit of pleasure, but far more frustration than anything.

Everything leaves him at once when Spock lets go of his neck— air, thought, a loud moan and a few soft but audible gasps as he tries to calm his breathing again. Eventually, when he feels like he no longer might fall over by simply trying to move, he gets to his feet and climbs on the bed, crawling to the middle of it and lying flat on his back, legs folded and knees parted wide, arms crossed over his head like Spock told him to do.