[His eyes follow the progress of the kisses Larus presses down his palm, and then his wrist. The sweetness of the gesture contrasts against the cold of Larus' fingers, the reality of his being. It's a reoccurring realization that he finds moving each time it crosses his mind.]
I was, [he says, not missing a beat.] Didn't I put myself in your hands?
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I was, [he says, not missing a beat.] Didn't I put myself in your hands?