"You've never been self-conscious in your life," he mutters.

He's enjoying the feel of the leather until Damian moves his hand back to skin, and his lips press together. Unconsciously, he holds his breath.

A mole? He allows his fingers to be guided, then rubs his fingertips over the small bump on Damian's thigh. Trying to make out if it feels like a fish.

"It doesn't feel fishy, but my fingers aren't skilled at discerning small shapes yet, I guess." There's a sentence rife with opportunity for you, Damian.