Hedonist that he is, Jean-Claude's personal bathroom is exactly as over-the-top as one might expect: he has an inset soaking tub large enough to fit four people, and he sets Jon carefully on the edge it, coming to kneel beside him. He reaches over to turn on the taps - old-fashioned, one each for hot and cold - and his skin is warmer than before, flush with blood and a slow pulse, where he presses against him as he leans over, hair falling forward in a tousled curtain.

Jean-Claude chuckles softly in response, settling back onto his heels as he waits for the tub to fill. One hand rests on Jon's knee, the other comes up to swipe the smear of blood off his own mouth before it can fully dry. He licks the blood from his thumb almost idly, not willing to waste any. It is like having the last bite of a decadent dessert: almost too much, but he is unwilling to leave it behind.

"That would be a poor way to repay you. You are continually a surprise, Jonathan," he admits, the honesty meriting his name rather than an epithet. "I did not imagine this would be the end of our evening when I invited you here." Lest he think this was all some plan - Jean-Claude cannot plan everything, more's the pity.