In those first few seconds after the fact, Neron busies himself with the heat of her skin and the copper tang of the blood in his mouth. He uses the cuff of his sleeve to carefully dab away the red still oozing from the wound, when suddenly Morgan is tugging him forward. He follows - of course he does, caught in orbit around her - on heavy, clumsy feet, with cheeks already starting to flush. There's no resistance in him when she flips their positions, the Hailstorm finding himself sitting obediently before Morgan on the bed.
"I should certainly hope not," he purrs to her, and even if the touch of her fingers is little more than a pleasant sort of pressure against his jaw, he melts into it, chin tilting up so he can meet her gaze. "That wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me, would it? I suppose I'm here until you decide it's time for me to go."
