Asher moans against Nathaniel's throat, his fangs scraping, gently, again and again, finally biting down. He knows he shouldn't take much more, but Nathaniel tastes, smells, feels so very good. He drinks of Nathaniel, winding one hand tight in auburn tresses, squeaking with water as he grips tight, pulls Nathaniel's head back, his neck a taut line against Asher's lips.