Sylar

He can't help but moan at that brush of fingers against his ribs. He arches his back into his hands, biting down on his lower lip, his thoughts against Mohinder's erratic and dark, like the flutter of wings against glass. He tightens his fingers in the Indian's hair, trying to catch his breath. If they were being watched, they're not now -- the others may like to pry, but they have no interest in where this looks as though it's going.

Do it, he manages, once he can pin down his thoughts again. I need to know.