Tseng's eyes darken, go somewhere far away even though they are trained on Rufus. These scenarios he envisioned in his head, clever little sexual labyrinths for Rufus to wander through in order to relieve him of these darker desires, some of them will take time to prepare. Most of them will need foresight, planning. Spontaneity is the enemy of safety, he thinks.

He kisses the pinnacle of Rufus's hip instead, gazing up at him through the dark fan of his lashes.

"Tell me what you want," he says, low and dark, his throat rumbling against Rufus's bare skin. Slowly, his thumb ascends the swollen ridge of Rufus's cock, the pad of it rubbing beneath the soft curve of its head. He is still hard, still hasn't come, could fuck Rufus with his hands locked around his throat until the president's eyes roll back all over again, but he gets the feeling that isn't what he's hungry for.