"Only a week and a half?" retorts the incredulous voice in the dark, sounding too amused to be as slighted as the words themselves would have suggested. "I'm losing my touch." He should have had the Marshal hook, line and sinker from day one, long before there were revelations about the kind of man he was or the kind of man people assumed he was.
Losing his touch is not something Raylan can complain about right now. Henry is all touch. But before they can get too intimate - a territory that comes with its own reservations and fears - a little taste test with teeth in the side of his neck doesn't go unnoticed. A left hand grips Raylan's shoulder while the right goes for the opposing hip. In under three seconds Henry has got one of their legs entangled with each other, and then he's rolling on top and taking over faster than they can say each other's names.
He pins Raylan down with a kind of strength he usually keeps in check, experienced enough rolling around in dirt and sheets and carpet to know how hard and how far he should push that powdery line in the sand. Hands on wrists and knees on knees, he leaves a bruise to remember their little tryst by on Raylan's hip, well hidden and easily excused as a careless collision against doorknob or countertop or... anything hard, really.
He releases one of Raylan's arm and slides his hand over a hard Adam's apple, tipping the good lawman's head back with one thumb, countering a furtive nibble with his own threat of teeth sinking into Raylan's upper lip. If they're going to bring this home with them then it should be abundantly clear that he's not cut from the same romantic cloth as either of the New Yorkers.
The too hard and too fast and too overwhelming approach is soothed by a calculated tapping on the brakes, with his fingers curling under Raylan's jaw, a deceptively apologetic soft kiss and an even softer groan.
If he's honest, and stops chasing that addictive heady rush that they're not discouraging for a few seconds, Raylan tastes like misery. Much as he enjoys it himself, he can imagine that for others it might be a bit of an acquired taste.
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Losing his touch is not something Raylan can complain about right now. Henry is all touch. But before they can get too intimate - a territory that comes with its own reservations and fears - a little taste test with teeth in the side of his neck doesn't go unnoticed. A left hand grips Raylan's shoulder while the right goes for the opposing hip. In under three seconds Henry has got one of their legs entangled with each other, and then he's rolling on top and taking over faster than they can say each other's names.
He pins Raylan down with a kind of strength he usually keeps in check, experienced enough rolling around in dirt and sheets and carpet to know how hard and how far he should push that powdery line in the sand. Hands on wrists and knees on knees, he leaves a bruise to remember their little tryst by on Raylan's hip, well hidden and easily excused as a careless collision against doorknob or countertop or... anything hard, really.
He releases one of Raylan's arm and slides his hand over a hard Adam's apple, tipping the good lawman's head back with one thumb, countering a furtive nibble with his own threat of teeth sinking into Raylan's upper lip. If they're going to bring this home with them then it should be abundantly clear that he's not cut from the same romantic cloth as either of the New Yorkers.
The too hard and too fast and too overwhelming approach is soothed by a calculated tapping on the brakes, with his fingers curling under Raylan's jaw, a deceptively apologetic soft kiss and an even softer groan.
If he's honest, and stops chasing that addictive heady rush that they're not discouraging for a few seconds, Raylan tastes like misery. Much as he enjoys it himself, he can imagine that for others it might be a bit of an acquired taste.