His breathing, a little unsteady. As if he has become too aware of it, must manage it consciously while Louis drinks, pulls blood from veins. Only a sip, this little drink, but Lestat can feel the low swoop of sensation at the immediate loss.

Wants, more than anything, for Louis to continue to drink. Wants to have offered his neck after all and wants to bury his own fangs in Louis' flesh until they are a single loop of bloodletting, blood drinking, a single organism. Wants to know for absolute certainty that it isn't the last time between them, fangs sinking into flesh.

Louis recovers his self-control. Pity.

Lestat slides his hand down off Louis' neck, palm resting high on his chest as Louis tends to the wound. "You've come far," he says. "I am certain your donors appreciate your restraint."

Nothing Louis had managed in their time together. Enough, chéri, in the midst of lovemaking. He misses that as well.