Vince leans over the couch. Puts his fingers back on the give of flesh under Reza’s jaw. “Reza,” he tries again, tone gentling more than he cares to notice. “C’mon, time to be a person again. Yeah? Up.”
It’s late. He really shouldn’t be touching Reza like this. When he drags his hand away from the boy’s skin—sleep-warm and soft enough that he wonders if it’s lotion, if that’s where that smell like herbal tea is coming from—his fingers slide up past the angle of his jawbone, the hollow plane of his cheek.
Reza’s eyes flutter open. Vince lifts his hand up and away, tucking it into the palm of the other behind his back. The boy shifts until he’s on his back, staring up at Vince with hazy comprehension.
“Time to go,” Vince says. His voice is quiet enough for the c***k in it to be perceived
