"Just because I'm not on my knees for every jerk in a pair of tight jeans doesn't mean I'm not good at it," he said, chin lifting, getting defiant despite all that had gone, and all he was risking by talking back like that. "I just don't... Genitals aren't what matters most to me. Never came up because, you know, Henley and not like I was getting on my knees for McKinney," he said, making a face and rolling his eyes.

Which was a lot of the truth. It just hadn't been relevant. Not in his mind.

"What do I have to prove? I'm the guy that just let you fuck his cunt," he said, making a face. "Yeah, saying that is weird," he said, even as his hands went to Dylan's fly, working it open with much steadier hands this time. "Guess I'm about to find out what I taste like," he said blandly. His calmness in all of this was probably already proof that his sanity had taken a blow that day. It might recover. If he's given a chance. Of course, that may well never happen.

Getting the zipper down, he sank to his knees even as he pushed down denim and underwear beneath until they caught at the width of Dylan's thighs. Looking up at this man who had changed his life, chased him relentlessly, and then given him everything in the world Daniel had been looking for, he licked a line up his own palm before wrapping it around the base of Dylan's cock. Not dropping his case, he leaned in and dragged his tongue over the head and then around beneath the flare of the head, playing over sensitive spots for his own enjoyment as well as Dylan's.

Yeah, he was definitely trying to prove something.