"I have yet to hear any complaints." For he ever left them satisfied. With all his years of training and practice- it was difficult to not. He'd twisted the compulsion into a point of pride and while that was likely not the most healthy means of dealing with his life it gave him joy. That? Was worth more than any healthy coping mechanism the Maker might give him. Besides. This was fun, pleasing, and a fine way to learn all sorts of sultry, sordid things. One can learn much of a man by how he stood or what he read or how he spoke- but a body in bliss told just as much if one knew how to read the tells. Zevran had long since been taught this language- it was his seconds after Antivan. He'd learned how to tell what a man's eyes hid and what a shuddering sigh meant before he'd ever learned the common tongue.

What he was reading of Michel fascinated him, every hidden or repressed desire, every secretive glance. That he was forbidden socially went without saying But there was something deeper to Michel's amorous disquiet. Something he meant to coax out in time. For now he focused on working his way down one lean thigh- again with hands and oil and gloves first before he laved in wet, open mouthed kisses from the crease of Michel's groin to the back of his knee, working out tension and winding him back up with ever drag of his teeth and curl of his tongue. Down one leg to the sole of his foot- which he spared the kissing as some did not find that quite so arousing and the inherent servitude such an image rose was not at all the point in this time- and back up from ankle to knee to thigh. Hands and oil and mouth, though he remained there between Michel's thighs, sucking a warm bruise into the inside of each ever so gently.