The last of the song is sung, and Lestat gives a hummed sound of pleasure for the press of Louis' body to his own, the flimsy barrier of his own clothing between them, even as he says this thing. The brightness that had lit up, pleased to be asked to perform, dims a little at the reminder, but—the smile doesn't leave, just changes.

"The song is for you," he says. "So. Whatever you say."

I don't want to smell her on you, and for all of his displeasure around the arrangement—isn't it good, to be possessed by the one you want never to leave you? How glad he was to be thrown across the room, and pinned in place, and had? He kisses Louis again, a hand slipping around to the small of his back, and a thigh nudging between both of his.

A playfully shallow kiss as he says, "Louis," and another, adding, "You're very underdressed."