[Right around now, with that touch, that moan, the way Nikolas's body reacts to it—is when the separate chairs thing becomes a bit too much to bear for him, at least, and he pulls away with a short, quiet gasp.]

Winter. My Winter—perhaps here is not the place, or if it is, you may as well come join me in my own seat. I daresay I could make the room for you if you didn't mind being very close indeed.

[Or they could go for a bed. Really, either way, Nikolas hopes they'll end up quite close.]