Vincent blinked, trying to dislodge the vision of all the things he could ask Wesley to do—I want you to let me grip your hair as I suck on your neck, I want you to fight me just a little so your body presses into mine, I want you to run your hands over your skin and tug at your clothing and see how long I can hold myself back from biting you—all things that had dwelt in his dreams the last few days, but which he would never, ever speak aloud as long as he lived.
