"Oh, but you must!" Ira rushed to Nathaniel in long, graceful strides to take up his hands in his own. His eyes, green and lively but not so fiercely colored as Nathaniel's, danced over the other man's face before glancing upon his lips, still damp from being licked. Feeling the compulsion to also wet his own mouth, Ira stopped himself short of doing so. He did swallow, however. Something clicked in his parched throat. "Just another drink. A little company in dim lighting, a little thrill of soft voices. Please?"
Ira lifted Nathaniel's hand to his own cheek. After a brief press of skin on skin, he turned his head to kiss the man's soft palm. "It has been a very long time since I've enjoyed such lovely company," he said softly, and he meant it. "Come to the couch. I won't dare to presume you would be comfortable resting on the bed, though it is far more comfortable than the over-stuffed furniture... Follow, follow."
Ira began to walk backwards, leading Nathaniel by both hands. After a few steps, when he was sure the man would trail behind him, he let go of one hand and turned to walk straight ahead until they arrived beside the long, velvety sofa and cluster of matching chairs. Ira sat first, then gleefully tugged Nathaniel down with him, almost into his lap. "See, darling? We'll have a grand old time; you only need to endue a little trust in the power of the Unknown and I'll do the rest. Wine? Or something... stronger?" After stealing a quick, gentle kiss on the cheek, Ira flashed his nice, even teeth at him, wider than he had all night so that Nathaniel could clearly see his sharp canines. He eased away and stood to collect their drinks from the refrigerated bar.
"The problem is, an opportunity like this comes so rarely in a lifetime, you're almost forced to act upon it whenever it gifts itself, lest you miss out forever. As a matter of fact, this very evening could be each of our Last Chance and we would be none the wiser. Isn't that so?" Ira continued on without a need for reply. He gathered glasses and poured drinks. "The last time I felt this enthralled by a man, I was six, and he'd handed me the first poem I'd ever read. It was on a napkin. He signed it N.W. All my life I've tracked down his works, and all my life I've aspired to be half the wordsmith that man is. . .Would you like ice in your bourbon, N.W.?"