There was something gently possessive, or at least authoritative, in that mumble. Kavinsky responded well to being pushed and bossed around, told what to do.

He rocked his hips a little, seeking, panting a little bit. His fingers curled against the wall; he wanted desperately to grab at Cain's hair, to tug, to hold on for the joy of the ride.

Cain looked lovely on his knees, which just made Kavinsky want to do something filthy for him.