Jedao wants to lick the tears off his face. He's panting hard, twitches in a full-body shudder as he watches Eiffel thrash and yell. He wants, and wants, and wants.

He moves his fingers more slowly, firm and deliberate, and doesn't go for his prostate again, not yet.

"I said once," Jedao recalls hoarsely, "That I wouldn't. Not until you were begging me for it."

He's not - necessarily bound to the idea. But he would like it. He would like it very much.