Macnair's lips parted just slightly, and for a second Ford could see his tongue. He took in a breath and held it, captivated. Was this what conversations were going to be like now that he'd been kissed by someone? Because if so, he absolutely couldn't handle this. How was he ever supposed to get anything done if he kept being distracted by the slightest thing — if something as simple as the other man parting his lips sent his insides to fluttering in excitement? Macnair and Fisk were hardly the only attractive men in the world — Macnair was not even the only attractive man in the room at the club at the moment. This was going to be hell.
The answer to Ford's question came and pushed him even farther towards the edge. He felt a noise in the back of his throat and had to swallow to prevent it from coming out, because this wasn't the time or the place, but: oh. The words, the tone, the volume level as Macnair spoke. The eye contact, the body language. It was all over — this was no longer a question of if but only of when, where, and how. Ford felt as powerless to prevent it as he had when Dorian Fisk's lips had been on his, and Macnair hadn't even touched him yet.
Ford wasn't aware of the interruption until the stranger was at his elbow. Even when Macnair's eyes broke from his own Ford hadn't followed his glance, instead lingering on his face for a moment before trailing down his chest and body.
Oh — someone wanted the wine bottle. Ford hadn't even realized he'd still been holding it. He glanced from the interrupter to Macnair uncertainly, waiting for a cue. Without even realizing it he'd envisioned little snippets of how the rest of the night might go, and the wine bottle was an integral part of it: they'd share the bottle, they'd both be a little intoxicated, they'd end up alone somewhere together. If Ford was a little intoxicated before it happened it wouldn't even be his fault, or at least he could tell himself that (it only mattered for his internal monologue, because of course he was never going to tell anyone else about this). If the wine bottle left, so did Ford's excuse for going along with this — but Macnair said to let it go, so he did. And then...
"Next time," Ford repeated, without having really processed the phrase yet. Macnair had licked his lips again as he'd said it. Next time. So the lack of the wine bottle changed nothing, not really. When, where, how were still to be determined, but not if. He shifted in his chair, leaning just a fraction closer to Macnair.
The answer to Ford's question came and pushed him even farther towards the edge. He felt a noise in the back of his throat and had to swallow to prevent it from coming out, because this wasn't the time or the place, but: oh. The words, the tone, the volume level as Macnair spoke. The eye contact, the body language. It was all over — this was no longer a question of if but only of when, where, and how. Ford felt as powerless to prevent it as he had when Dorian Fisk's lips had been on his, and Macnair hadn't even touched him yet.
Ford wasn't aware of the interruption until the stranger was at his elbow. Even when Macnair's eyes broke from his own Ford hadn't followed his glance, instead lingering on his face for a moment before trailing down his chest and body.
Oh — someone wanted the wine bottle. Ford hadn't even realized he'd still been holding it. He glanced from the interrupter to Macnair uncertainly, waiting for a cue. Without even realizing it he'd envisioned little snippets of how the rest of the night might go, and the wine bottle was an integral part of it: they'd share the bottle, they'd both be a little intoxicated, they'd end up alone somewhere together. If Ford was a little intoxicated before it happened it wouldn't even be his fault, or at least he could tell himself that (it only mattered for his internal monologue, because of course he was never going to tell anyone else about this). If the wine bottle left, so did Ford's excuse for going along with this — but Macnair said to let it go, so he did. And then...
"Next time," Ford repeated, without having really processed the phrase yet. Macnair had licked his lips again as he'd said it. Next time. So the lack of the wine bottle changed nothing, not really. When, where, how were still to be determined, but not if. He shifted in his chair, leaning just a fraction closer to Macnair.
Set by Lady!