“At some point,” he continued, carefully choosing his words, “we'd probably want to take off our clothes.”

Dick swallowed, his Adam's apple nothing but a momentary ripple in the bundled fabric of his scarf. He held perfectly still, like a living statue.

“Because it'd be hot,” he said reasonably. His voice sounded a little muddy, like his tongue was stuck to his palate.

“So hot,” Nix confirmed. “Too hot. I've got half a mind to complain to the concierge later.”

“No,” Dick said. “I like it like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. About those clothes, then.”

Dick hummed encouragingly. Emboldened, Nix's fingers wrapped a little tighter around Dick's thigh; his thumb stroked the hollow at the hinge of his thigh, dragging along the crease of his trousers.

“Jacket first. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dick agreed.

“Shirt next.”

“Suspenders,” Dick corrected. “You're forgetting--”

“Yes. Good point. I'll do those first. And your tie, too.”

“My tie?” Dick repeated.

“Well, yes.”

“Oh. You're taking off my clothes.”

“Yes, I am,” Nix confirmed, frowning at the confusion. “I mean, if you--”

“No, I--Yes. Sure. I like that.”

Nix took a quick breath through his nose, feeling like he was losing narrative steam. The last thing he wanted now was to get stuck in a prolonged description of items of clothing.

“Look, uh. Let's call this part done, okay?”

“So,” Dick said, voice rumbling in his throat like gravel, “you've got all your clothes on, and I'm wearing nothing?”

The image went straight to Nix's crotch like a beam of light running through his body.

“Yeah,” he breathed.