<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">There was something to be said about the appeal of wielding control. Mikkel had never taken a passive approach to anything in his life and, on more than one occasion and in more than one context, had been accused of possessing a highly predatory nature. It was something he ha always found quite natural, far more so than taking direction or fitting snugly into one's expectations.<br/>
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That being said, he found something utterly alluring in the way he <i>didn't</i> need to control Quinn's movements to urge him on. He could easily have taken what he wanted, could have used the advantage of height and strength to lock Quinn precisely where he wanted him and rut into that welcoming mouth, but he almost found it more satisfying to simply watch as the younger man moved on his own. He needed no real prompting, no verbal or physical direction. Those lips conformed to his width, that tongue coursed over his length, and Quinn did so with such enthusiasm that the sight of him brought forth a low, pleased groan from the back of the doctor's throat.<br/>
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"I hardly need to be," he mentioned, "when you make your talent so delightfully obvious." <br/>
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A hand swept through Quinn's hair, pinning it away from his lovely face, that he could better watch his erection slip behind those full lips, that he could better view the way those eyes peered up at him as he worked. He looked quite beautiful that way, lovely but utterly debauched, so unlike the polished, chilly man he had met in the gallery. What a difference one dinner had made. "Almost too talented," he accused, giving his dark mane a gentle but insistent tug. "I have plans for you yet, Quinn."</span>