This seclusion hit Wes in a blow, both stronger and somehow different from the privacy of his own home. It made him want to slip his arm through Vincent’s and lean his head on the vampire’s shoulder and whisper all the desires that had been aching within him—the craving for Vincent’s mouth on his neck and his hands dragging down the front of Wesley’s pants, but something more than that too. For the promise of just this, again: to sit in the dark, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, passing back and forth their drink in silence and simply existing together.
