Draw the breath from him Michel did indeed, with a near painful thoroughness that left him wavering when Michel pulled back. Feet on the ground and arms about his shoulders- Zevran had to remain on his toes if he wished to remain so close- and he did. Whatever this meant, whatever it might lead to- he did not care to think that far head. All he wished was for more of Michel's mouth, Michel's hands, he had not been so thoroughly or tightly wound from a simple kiss in years. Yet he stood, panting, lips parted and bruised red from the kiss, eyes dazed and half lidded- things he tried to be for others while attempting a seduction.

Things he simply had and felt now in truth. Something else he did not wish to examine.

Finding his voice took time, Zevran ran his tongue over his lips to taste Michel again, to wet them in the cold air, body pressed tight and subtly rocking against the Chevalier without thought. The only thing he wished for was more. Of. Whatever this was. Whatever it could be. To steal some of this intensity for a little while longer. "The hay loft."

It was no bed with satin sheets and warming oils- but it fit the spontaneity, the ravishing intensity of that kiss.