[ Maybe if he thought there was some possibility of not being able to stop Verso if he wanted to, he'd push away, create more distance between them, but the truth is he wants this just as much as Verso does. Wants to feel him, real and warm and solid, under his hands; wants to taste his lips and the salt off his skin.

The sash finally parts under his fingers, sliding down to Verso's hips, and he lifts his left hand to carefully undo the cord that's slung from one side of his chest to the other. His right, he shifts down, curving it over Verso's thigh, his thumb running idly over firm muscle through the fabric, just like the man is describing. ]

I think I would find that very distracting. I might even have a hard time finishing my sentences, if you had your hand on my leg under the table like that.

[ His chuckle rumbles in his throat, under the gentle kisses Verso is placing there. ]

Unusual for me, I know.

[ As if he hadn't stumbled over sentences the very first night he met Verso, taken aback by his beauty, by his songs, by the barest hint of a kiss brushed over his knuckles. ]

And then what? You've picked us a table in the shadows for a reason, monsieur le pianiste. Will you stop at my thigh?