Oh, Arthur's not about to stop, not when Crichton is losing his entire mind under Arthur's attentions. Not when he's calling Arthur's name like that. He sucks hard at Crichton's head, hot-cheeked and thinking up his next move, his approach not unlike tackling a puzzle whose goal is to draw out as many of those loose, wanting moans as possible. For just a moment, then, he pulls his mouth away-- but only to spit on his hand and put it to work at the base of Crichton's cock.

(At which point he notices that he's drooling way more than he realised, and also that his shoulder's kind of sore from holding him up, and also that Crichton's pubic hair feels weird with spit in it-- okay no no no he's in the moment he's in the moment.)

Crichton slides back between his lips again, and he'll feel another brush of teeth, restrained and exploratory, delivered alongside a lapping tongue. The ace in the hole, if you will, while Arthur's hand pumps out of rhythm with his mouth.

Maybe he should be going more gently, maybe someone with more experience would use an expert touch to draw this out longer; who knows. But Arthur's virtues have never included patience, and he wants to experience every bit of this, and he wants it all now. He wants to know everything he's been missing out on all these years.