He drops the belt. He lets it go; it just slides off his wrist and hits the floor. It's the easiest thing. What's coming close to frightening him about all of this is how eerily easy it is.

He steps forward, bends so he's not blocking the light with his body, and his hands settle high on Tom's hips, carefully avoiding any welts. For the second time tonight he's examining, but this is less detached and far more intent, and under the coolness is something like worship.

Slowly he leans in and traces a welt with his lips. Not a kiss. Nothing that hard. Just a ghost of contact.