The groan against Carlisle's skin is as frustrated as moved.
He's not positive he want to be either. But no one is asking.




And he shouldn't. His eye close, eyelashes light, burying his face against Carlisle's throat. He can't. A small nip. It'd be wrong. A very, very light brush of his lips. It could be worse.

The smallest whisper, lost in the crowning dawn's wind. "Tell me what you want of me?"