He's been a sucker for that voice, oh, almost certainly all along. He couldn't pinpoint a particular moment--he was completely in the middle of this long before he realized it had begun. But Jude's low growl is definitely high on the (very long) list of what makes him stammer like a teenager and cuddle up like a needy puppy. Most of the time. That voice just barely speaking his name like that, though, that's smoky whiskey and cold desert sunlight pouring straight into his brain.

It's enough (and tonight is enough, and all the efforts behind them are enough) that he doesn't react at all to the fingers rougher in his hair, the tightening hand at his side. Small things. Meaningless, not quite as nice as they should be, but not getting in his way, either. Not a danger. Just his Jude.

He looks up reluctantly, noting the smudgy hint of his activities that's all he can see in the firelight. Bodhi can't even be rough enough to raise much of a hickey, but it's there, and he'll know it. He runs his thumb lightly over the spot and smiles smugly as he looks Jude in the eye. (There's his name again.) "I mean, um, I'd kind of rather do it for you, but if you want." He's teasing, but he's also watching, in case Jude would rather.