i'll not risk my honey pouch (which my slouch will wear slung very low)

Felix is always stretching, whether at something or just to keep himself limber; whether wearing green ascot and country-club whites or that ridiculous curlicued anchor shirt.

Oscar won't admit, until Felix is wearing absolutely nothing, that he loves it.

After all, it's pretty embarrassing; it's one thing to be leaving kiss after kiss on a guy's hips, the skin needlessly perfect and the muscles underneath something just shy of toned, but another completely when he's running his hands through your hair and murmuring your name - glorifying, for once, instead of bemoaning - over and over and over again, writhing gracefully forever.