Sylus primps himself like a cat for his dear doctor's attention.
A wicked sight, lying on his stomach, head propped up by his hands under the pillow; not a slip of clothing on him, black satin sheets tangled low around his hips.
By all appearances he is perfectly relaxed, but there is measured intent to his movements, each deliberate stretch. He knows he is being watched from the doorway. He rolls his shoulders, a fluid motion which ripples down his back, the tension of the day freed from his tight, bunched muscles. Allows the satisfaction of this release to escape in an overlong sigh, as an indulgent arch of his spine. He listens for the steps approaching him which stop by the edge of the bed. And he waits, waits to receive the touch he's been angling for.
Tonight, it is the cool press of Zayne's finger above his tailbone. He shivers. His body remembers the other nights: lips against his pulse, the drag of a knuckle against his cheek, a hand laid possessively on his nape, or splayed across his back to keep him down. This touch is chaste in comparison. Just one finger, trailing up the middle. Zayne reaches the space between his shoulder blades, but then he veers off to the right—
—and flicks the little brown nub of skin there.
"You should have this mole examined," he says with an amused huff under his breath.
...And like any cat owner, Zayne has become rather familiar with these idle games.
