Roger tried to tell himself that it was a cultural thing -- that the lips on his hand weren't meant to make heat spark and uncoil in his the way they just had, but by the time he'd rationalized it away, those same lips were on his palm and Roger was a goner. His eyes closed for half a second as he pictured sharp color spiraling from the point of contact and when he reopened his eyes, Anatoly was still there, still brushing his lips against Roger's palm.

The other hand found its way to Anatoly's cheek, and he searched his eyes for a moment before closing his own and stepping in the remaining distance to watch the way that mouth whispered warmth into his palm.