Jude's mouth tasted like coffee. Kieran had wondered, over the years, what Jude's mouth would taste like — he should have known it would bring this strong, caffeinated taste, like a jolt of awareness. He was aware — of Jude's hands on his neck and his waist, of Jude's taste, of the tenement door pressed against his back.

He ran his hands over Jude's chest, just feeling. Once, he had kissed Jude's shoulder, after a full moon — he should have been braver then. He should have been braver this whole time, and then their kisses would be less urgent, and Kieran would have been able to focus on them fully, instead of on the racing of his heartbeat.

The break in kisses was something Kieran forced; he tucked his head against Jude's chest. "What do you want to do tonight?" he forced himself to ask, in an almost-panting tone. Because he could kiss Jude by this door all night, but he desperately wanted to know: what did Jude want?