Well, that had been just a prelude, mused Dorian. Klaus still had to get into the spirit of things; relax, let go. Until then, they were both in for a rough ride. Dorian shifted in the bed until he was leaning sideways over the still form of his beloved, whose eyes were closed but who certainly was not asleep.
“Darling. Are you all right?”
There was no reply, or almost—a minute shift of the dark head, which now was not so completely turned away. Should I be encouraged, thought Dorian. Of course I should, even if really I’m not.
“Let me get you something? A drink, perhaps?”
“Quit fussing, and get to the point. Say whatever you have to say, and leave.”
“Isn’t it clear enough why?”
“Klaus. Do you really think me so shallow?”
Waves of resentful silence pervaded the cosy room. Well, more of a bolt hole for a badly turned-out mission—which might have been a mistake on Dorian’s part. As a setting for Klaus’s momentous capitulation, the location left a lot to be desired. But the opening had been so unmistakeable, and in an odd way so final, that Dorian hadn’t dared question it.
“Right. Maybe what we need is a good night’s sleep—it’s been a few tiring days. Tomorrow it will all be different. We’ll be right as rain.” Dorian leaned over, gently moving a strand of black hair away from Klaus’s forehead, and kissed it, lips barely touching the heated, taut skin.