Vasquez's little admonishment is met with a quick, irritated huff – as if to say Faraday can't be bothered to properly respond to him. Mostly because stringing together a coherent sentence is awfully low on his priority list, right now, especially with Vasquez kissing him and touching him the way he is.

He feels Vasquez's arousal against his hip, even through the material of Vasquez's pants. That nickname again, and the dark way Vasquez looks down at him makes a bolt of want shoot straight through his stomach. But it's the question that makes him moan, his hips rocking into the rhythm Vasquez has set.

"Your mouth," he finally manages to croak out, though apparently he doesn't mean to make it easy for Vasquez, with the way he tugs him in for another desperate, bruising kiss.