"Yeah, me too," Kavinsky mumbled, never really a fan of the astringent bite of vodka but now the memory of the turpentine smell-flavor just made him shift a hand to the half-faded hickey on his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the track of Lee's tongue on his lip. His smile stayed contemplative, inviting, but his eyes shut off at the mention of Newt. His chest ached with the thorns of what he'd done.

He tossed back the rest of his whiskey sour and signaled the bartender over, leaning over a bit flirtatiously, body one long, fluid line--aggressive but at ease; the same simple, easy posturing that had gotten Newt into his bed, and gotten Connor's cock into his mouth--as he said, "Whatever you've got with your top shelf tequila. Heavy on the tequila."