Being admired is new-old; something he's experienced before, but not in a long time. It makes Armand feel all the more singular. No one else is looking at him this way. No one else has a gaze that melts over him, scouring and caressing.

"I recall the first time I got really, really sunburned," he says, laying back to let his maker get his obscene fill. Daniel draws his hand up to his mouth, and licks the pomegranate-colored mess from them, and it makes his eyes shift, makes his cock twitch. "I moved to Los Angeles, after San Fransisco. July. Venice Beach, sitting in between the bodybuilder yard and the volleyball posts. Everyone was sweating, baking, it felt like needles all over my skin, I just had this shitty baseball cap and sunblock that had sweated off in ten minutes, hours behind me. I had burns," he moves his hand, down over his own chest, indicating some slutty, awful, early 1980s v-neck, "all the way down here, and here," lower, the top of his thigh, he must have been in sports shorts, or trunks, or raggedy cut-off jeans. "That's what the sun feels like, right? Do you sweat still, in the sun?"

Fingers trace what he can reach of Armand's chest, between his pectoral muscles, conjuring thoughts of rivulets of sweat, pink-tinted, shining.