While Atticus talked, Ryan unlaced and removed his shoes, leaning over while seated still on the left side of him, then turned his face, coming back up slowly, that slight smile creeping back to curl his lips.<br/><br/>"My hair?" he said, tilting his head to allow the subject to follow lazily ; a shadow to motion, then reached to the bedside table to open a drawer but not reach into it yet, whatever was in it still quite impossible to see.<br/><br/>Atticus wasn't the first, and would probably not be the last, to be interested in Ryan's hair. It was well kept, long, silk, soft. Many had tried to touch. Some of those had met his fist before they even were in range.<br/>It was a vain thing for Ryan ; to keep his hair as it was. It distracted and lured both men and women. Gave him something sensual, hinted of a softness that the dark eyes, pale skin and near regal posture of the man contradicted.<br/><br/>Still in his black silk pants, he moved and nearly crawled over the bed, over Atticus, one knee planted at each side of his waist, straddling him while his eyes never lost contact.<br/>He also made very sure he'd not touch the evidence of the man's arousal in any way, seating himself just above it, smile turning wicked for moments.<br/><br/>He did, however, fulfil one of the things Atticus had sad he desired ; long elegant fingers ghosted along his body, but more to study the intricate lace his scars were, deliberately slow, than to evoke pleasure, brows knitting for a moment, head tilting again, before he leaned in, looming, and traced this lace with his tongue instead, pathing upward to his neck slowly, fulfilling another desire when his hair tumbled but landed not on his own chest but on Atticus'.