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"You know, one of these days the university is going to start wondering why you need a bodyguard on all these expeditions."

"In that case, I'll simply refer them to the dozens of police reports I've filed regarding attempts on my life or my son's. That should settle the matter."

"Sure, long as you don't requisition lube as part of the supplies." Race adds a twist to the slow stroke of his hand, and Benton can't quite manage to form an acceptable rejoinder.

"I think—I think I can remember not to," he mutters, raking his fingers through Race's close-cropped hair. Race laughs; he's always liked watching Benton slowly come undone, layers of propriety stripped away with the tweed and cotton.

But Benton's never easy to predict, and his hand slides against the front of Race's jeans, precise and possessive. "If you're worried, though, we could always...just...stop."

Race's grin turns sharp, his lips pressed against the side of Benton's throat. "Let's not make any hasty decisions, Doctor."