Maybe it's the spray that still soaks his clothes since they had drifted away from the river, but Bobo didn't care the cause. It's not as if he's ever denied himself pleasure, if only because his needs are more important than anything else. Not as if pleasure has anything to do with a man's heart after all.

Bobo steps into that tug, rocking his weight to his forward foot so that he can hook his foot around Vasquez's ankle. Just enough motion so that his body molds to the other man's as his hand slid along his arm, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

It isn't as if they could get much closer, but it's a controlling motion, one to allows him to rock against Vasquez, pushing buttons that could upset a man of that time they both knew well. Even if Bobo's life has moved far beyond that.

"I do tend to be a demanding bastard," he points out, words that may well be warning.