And when Kyle lowers him onto the bed, Ashen instead shifts, his body twisting with feline grace, flipping them so that he is suddenly on top of Kyle, dominant and almost taunting.
A slow, knowing grin teases the corners of Ashen's lips as he stares down at Kyle, eyes locked on his, pupils dilated with a dark, simmering hunger.
Then, moving painfully, devastatingly slow, he begins to unbutton Kyle's shirt one by one, the pads of his fingers brushing skin with every movement.
Each button is a deliberate sin, every tug drawing out a kind of quiet torture as the fabric parts, baring more of Kyle's flushed skin to the cool air.
Ashen never once breaks eye contact, his gaze molten and impossibly intense, drinking in every shiver that moves across Kyle's features.
