Kavinsky closed his eyes, humming tunefully along with the music as Lee's hand slid along his body, over his shirt. It had only been a couple days, and loneliness had crept in swiftly, in a way Kavinsky was loathe to admit to when he had gone all his memorable life without any serious attachment. He knew this was not a serious attachment, but the warmth, the contact, the familiarity of touch raced through him and his body soaked it in desperately.

He leaned back into it, canting his hips back against Lee's intimately, lifting a hand to run over his short hair and cup the back of his neck. He tilted his head to the side and exposed his neck, nothing indecent, but an invitation.

A part of him wondered which would happen first: them getting out of hand and being asked to leave, or one or the both of them deciding it was time to go of their own volition.