[It would be like Tseng, to test the words in practice — they settle in the air, bow-strung, impossible to ignore for their effect. Sasuke deliberately sets his cup down in avoidance of an accident. Then, the fingers of his right hand hang off the edge of the table, and he — pushes himself back from it.

He's not really used to this. There's a brittle tension between them, an unspoken thrum of attraction he's more accustomed to speaking into existence outright, rather than allowing it to simmer low and hot and prolonged. Flirting, this must be called. Foreplay. If he did not have the experience he does now, the necessary cues might have slipped from his grasp on the first step.

But Tseng is making himself very clear.]

You're doing that on purpose. [The words are still vibrant in his mind, drawing him forward, nudging Tseng's knees apart with a hip to stand between the man's legs without otherwise touching. It's a blatant reversal of their positions at House Finch.] Do you want to see which of those is most effective? Unfortunately, I don't have an answer. I like hearing all of them. Every single one.

[He knows Tseng is hard — but he doesn't get any closer.]

What about when I called you 'sir'? Do you prefer something else?