Grabbing Faraday with a firm hand cupped around the back of his neck, he distracts himself with the kiss. Hours ago, he thought he'd be riding out of town alone and worried for the target on his back. Now, he's in bed kissing Faraday like he's trying to get him to stop breathing, but Faraday wants his mouth, so his mouth he's going to get.

If he'd ever get it back. "Cabron," he huffs in protest, as if he isn't the one leaning back in to pepper more kisses to Faraday's lips, soft and light and teasing in between the heated, bruising endless ones. "I need my lips," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded as he noses up the scruff of Faraday's beard so he can drop slow kisses to the space behind his earlobe, down his neck, tracking over his collarbone.

It's a shame there's still fabric in the way, so he leans back to tug at the hem of Faraday's shirt, trying to coax him to sit up. "Get this off," he insists. "Then I'll finish you off, lo prometo, I promise," he echoes the Spanish with the English instantly.