Phoenix turned his head in open invitation, impulsively kissing the hard-tendoned pillar of the forearm braced beside his head, tongue laving the subtle warmth of his wrist. There was sweat on his skin - it suited the words in his ear too well, twisted the desire into something stranger and deeper.

"You've got me." There were too many meanings the panted, barely-audible phrase could have held: reassurance, desire, appreciation, surrender. It blurred somewhere in the middle of all of them, and only grew clearer on the second try. "You've got me," he murmured, and whatever that tone was, it clenched in his throat almost before he could finish.