He was acutely conscious of Percy as he worked. Small memories of the body lingered on his mouth, in his hands, making them uncertain with steel and flint. He felt Percy’s eyes on his back, heard the small rustlings of quilts as that lithe bare body shifted in the bed.
His mouth tasted of Percy. Each man has his own taste; Percy tasted, very faintly, of mushrooms — wood morels, he thought; truffles, perhaps. Something rare, from deep in the earth.
The steel chimed and sparks flew, glowed brief against the char but didn’t catch. He had tasted himself once, out of curiousity; faintly salt, bland as egg white. Perhaps Percy would think differently?
Diana Gabaldon, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade (Chapter 18 - Finally)