Whatever pain Rufus inflicts with his nails, Tseng routes it right back to him. There's a tab of skin between his teeth, and he grinds them together as Rufus shreds him soundly, a quick pressure, an abrupt pop, and then a flood of that metallic taste of Rufus's blood in his mouth.

"You need reminding," he corrects. His free hand clutches into the meat of Rufus's ass, lifting and opening him wide with one quick jerk as he slips between his president's thighs. "Not everything is revenge plots and grandiose displays of power."

Now. His fingers trail down the elegant curve of Rufus's throat. Blood is flooding his senses. They both know that it would be so easy for him to press, and the insult here is that he pets those spaces that would end him in an instant, rubbing whorling circles into pressure points, against the soft pulse of an artery.