The suite is luxurious enough that Corrigan’s attention is momentarily swayed away from Kurt -- no small task, considering how magnetic they are like this, visibly turned on and still trembling. He takes in the bed, the furnishings, the bath, his suitcases lined up neatly beside the wall. The bed, again.

Then he crosses back to the door, behind Kurt, hand resting for a moment on the deadbolt. Any number of staff might have the room key, but once that bolt is locked, nobody's coming in or out without his permission. He knows that. Kurt knows that. They're at a turning point, the edge of something professionally ill-advised, but devastatingly tempting.

"You have the job, Kurt," Corrigan says softly, hand on the deadbolt, taking in the afternoon sun outlining their body, bringing out the gold and auburn lights in their hair. "Assistant or receptionist or anything else you wish. If that's all you need, you can go."

The room is big, but not so much so that Corrigan can't reach out, rest his hand on the back of Kurt’s neck, find their pulse with his thumb and press gently. "Anything from here on is purely...a personal investment. If that's what you want." He doesn't want them to agree to sleep with him to get or keep a job -- not this time. He wants to know it's their decision, their desire, powerful enough that money doesn't factor in at all.

He wants them, he's always wanted them, but he needs them to want him back.