Mars groans, which isn’t a no, and Harry reaches back, spreading his legs a little wider, lowering enough to get a better angle for his hand and suck on the underside vein in front of him. It’s not as if he’s never fingered himself. A few days ago he fingered himself for the better part of two hours, kneeling on a cushion in the corner of Marvolo’s office for a long lunch that involved a lot of fingering and some truly spectacular rimming. (Merlin, what that man could do with his tongue makes Harry weak in the knees thinking about it -- and, fuck, fuck, that’s a gush of liquid, fuck, he’s dripping).