Hesitating, still. Contemplating newly bared skin, the closeness with which they seat themselves on the couch. Louis' grip resettles, fingers circling Lestat's wrist, thumb hooked beneath the loops of silver there.

Briskly crushes the flutter of disappointment, of wanting to put fangs to Lestat's throat. A transgression. Louis knows better.

"Only a sip," Louis cautions. "Don't let me take too much."

For so many reasons, but chief among them how it would weaken Lestat. How Louis does not wish to do anything of the sort.

His free hand thumbs up the delicate skin offered to him in the wake of Lestat's instructive little touch. Louis takes a moment, looking down as if to consider the angle more fully, and—

Maybe it's a bad idea.

Lestat had looked so pleased though.

So Louis lowers his head. Kisses that beating pulse in Lestat's arm before he drops his fangs, uses them to carefully break the skin.