"No," Tseng says, but to be honest, he wasn't expecting much of anything but dramatics or cold shoulders. The hand upon Rufus's hip rises to his lips instead, stroking over the plush curve of them. "You look beautiful on your knees."

His thumb presses into Rufus's lower lip, opening the way for his flicking tongue. There is something heady and powerful and alluring about tasting himself in Rufus's mouth. It makes his fist move faster, in quick, blurring snaps of his wrist.

He knows—he always does—when Rufus will be at that edge. To bring him there quickly is his intention, pumping his cock until it shines with the red flush of blood, and then stop, turn his fingers into whispering brushes of touch. Rufus is best when Tseng gets him wild for it, and they so rarely have the time, but he is making it now.