The door is locked; the chance for disturbance therefore shrunk into a minimal number. Jazz does not spare one microbite of his processor on the thought.
All that matters is Midvalley's sweet kisses on naked skin, a crescendo of sensation painting a myriade of effulgent colours into his spectrum of touch. Slowly, as if beyond his command, Jazz' fingers glide along a silken ocean. Further and further along they travel, until they can tangle in the one thing he envies organic species over - hair.
He rolls it between his fingers, one majestic lock at a time. And when Midvalley's lips come close enough to a certain point, Jazz allows himself to laugh again in ticklish merryment.