Tease him about chapped lips, no. Use it as an excuse to run his tongue upon them at every given opportunity? Yes. A soft hum of pleasure eases from his throat, quite taken with gentle petting through his hair even though he abhors anyone else attempting to style it or fix ridiculous baubles through the thick mane. Bare arms tighten before releasing Vincent, hands falling to clasp on his waist before falling away, contenting himself to follow Vincent’s lead or hold still as possible. Whichever was preferred. Tiny smile flirting at his mouth, “I love you” is whispered.
Turning, he pauses in slight shock at the confession–he never finds himself prepared to hear such pretty words. Catching himself quickly, he forces himself to look into golden eyes opposite him and murmur the same. Sliding a fraction closer, a pale cheek lays itself on that bare shoulder as he breathes in the scent that envelops him. Calloused fingers rise to brush the hollow between collarbones, disregarding the scar that lies there; he knows not how it came to be, but he would not ask for the story. Something painful, he feels, is not his place to unearth, never mind that this intimacy holds no place for such tales. Gauntlet wraps around lean waist, and he pulls the paramour close to his own form. “…Can we go back to bed?”
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