His breath catches as his head tips slightly and instinctively back. There hasn't been much sex in these touches except as a low background warmth, but suddenly it spikes into heat, and suddenly he understands where the fear comes from. When he's the one doing things, he still has control. This is the edge of its loss. Not the loss of himself to himself.

The loss of himself to Neil. From which the darker, hateful part of him hisses and recoils.

This is just a hint of it. And aside from the hitch in his breath there's nothing. He curls his hand around the nape of Neil's neck and nuzzles right back and the heat is bearable.

How did we not burst into flames before. How did we not set the whole fucking jungle on fire.

"C'mon," he murmurs.