"I've been asking you the same all night."

Ulysse smiles a bit, turning his head to hide his lips against Rook's hand, pressing a warm kiss to the mage's rough palm. Then he trails lingering kisses along the meat of that palm, down to a scarred wrist, nuzzling at the pulse point, eyes closed as he rests his cheek into the cradle of that hand.

"You're the mage, after all."