I am, aren't I? I won't ask your forgiveness. You are marvelously and intentionally distracting. But, very well... back to falling in love.

( His touch drifts down the length of Lestat's fingers and finally drops, palm resting on the imitation leather. With a thoughtful hum, Louis runs his hand across the material, feeling the texture with a movement that's almost a caress. It's more provocative than he'd intended it to be, and the nape of his neck prickles with something like nervousness; he falters just slightly, almost imperceptibly, before making himself press on. )

It isn't real leather, but it's very close, isn't it? I didn't think it would be so soft to the touch.