Quentin's fingers close around him and Stephen lets out a gust of relief, sigh pooling rough and voiced around the fingers that find their way into his mouth. Hunger has his tongue rise to meet them, lapping at fingertips, laving over warm skin as his hips rock shallow into Quentin's hold. Friction, closeness and the salt of those fingers working him full in that snug grip.

Attention elsewhere, it takes him a little too long to notice the prickling of a rivulet of pitch creeping down his arm. Longer still to realise it means his window of opportunity has closed and he lets go of Quentin's hand, closing both of his own over the countertop in front of him just to keep himself from turning around, reaching back.

This isn't going to be easy.

Slipped between minds to spare himself the need to free up his mouth, which if Quentin's hand doesn't fall away will busy itself kissing closed around his fingers, lewd with sense memory and safe company's lifted inhibitions and the urgent desire to make this worth Quentin's while.