"Garlond," Nero says as he shakes out of his vest, parts only to pull the linen undershirt up over hios head and toss it to the floor, "You've been with me all damned day. You know exactly how ready I am."

He loves it when he wants him like this. When it's a bone-aching, feral need that makes them forget propriety and just devour each other. What is kindness, what is love, in the face of all consuming obsession?

(Let him feel what Nero feels, just a drop of that aching need.)