Taras exhaled, leaning forward again, into Lasha's touch, feeling the warmth of his hand move against Taras' skin, almost as if sculpting him, like an artist.
He knew Lasha's heart beat hungrily in his chest, that he craved sensation.
That was why he touched everything, stroked it and learned its shape and texture. With most things, that was enough, just to know them. But there were some things Lasha ended up keeping.
His gaze dropped to the jet-dark lines inked across Ilarion's chest, just under the graceful curves of his collarbone, to the part of himself that he had given Ilarion.
Taras reached out to brush his thumb across those lines, to touch Lasha's skin in turn.
"You're not cold. I can feel how warm you are, Lasha."
He let his broad hand stroke upward, to Isaev's throat.
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He knew Lasha's heart beat hungrily in his chest, that he craved sensation.
That was why he touched everything, stroked it and learned its shape and texture. With most things, that was enough, just to know them. But there were some things Lasha ended up keeping.
His gaze dropped to the jet-dark lines inked across Ilarion's chest, just under the graceful curves of his collarbone, to the part of himself that he had given Ilarion.
Taras reached out to brush his thumb across those lines, to touch Lasha's skin in turn.
"You're not cold. I can feel how warm you are, Lasha."
He let his broad hand stroke upward, to Isaev's throat.
"I'll make you warmer."