Damen felt the brush of Laurent's mouth, the warmth of his breath, the softness of his cheeks; allowed himself to lean into it all, yielding to the touches as if it was Laurent courting him. It was a new feeling for him.

"Pick one," he suggested, inordinately pleased by the praise. (The flick earned Laurent a muttered grunt and a grin.) "And you shall choose your own reward for your efforts. Even a terrible poet is worthy of some laurels." Damen raised a hand to the side of Laurent's face; with the greatest of delicacy, he spanned forehead to jaw with the breadth of his touch. "Not to influence your choice, but a kiss might be a fair prize."