Bastien exhales in a burst, the stunted cousin of a laugh, something similar to relief even though he hadn't been at all nervous—even though he would, in fact, be a little put out to know that Byerly might have thought anything else could come of lying on top of a man and pouting that way. But the pressing mouth and sliding tongue aren't any less pleasant just because he was counting on them. Like sinking into a chair after a long time on his feet.

His attempts to chase Byerly's tongue back aren't sloppy, exactly, but they are lazy and playful, and after a few seconds he sucks on it outright—taking it prisoner, and not trying even a little to be sexy about it—long enough to lower his head the few inches back to the rug, with his hand slid around to the back of Byerly's head just to make doubly sure he comes along instead of pulling away.