For once, Dorian had awoken before him. The whispering slither of foppish silk sheets roused Klaus, who opened his eyes in the feeble morning light to the sight of a river of blonde hair adorning bare shoulders, gleaming golden over creamy, spotless skin. Klaus drank in how Dorian’s fingers deftly gathered and coiled the golden hair into a thick rope, then reached for a carved ivory pin on the bed stand and stuck it into the mass, twisting and pushing until the hair was secured into a bun low on Dorian’s neck.
The bun was far from perfect—wisps of hair curled loose, caressing Dorian’s nape. Klaus felt the impulse to lean in and tuck the errant strands into place—or maybe to simply tangle with them, twisting them round his fingers as if echoing Dorian’s actions. Making him shiver by tugging on it. Making him moan low in the throat the way he did when on the cusp between pain and pleasure.
Where is all this embarrasing sentimental crap coming from? Klaus frowned and scolded: “Why don’t you use a elastic band like I do? That way the hair won’t come loose at the wrong moment. Like, while tuning up an engine.”
Dorian turned: “First of all, you should never use a elastic band, it is very bad for your hair—not to mention it’s so Salvation Army lady. And darling, your hair is straight”—a cooed giggle—“and so it’s more slippery, of course it wouldn’t hold up so well in a chignon. Mine just bunches up and stays put.”
“How unlike you—staying put.”
“How unlike you—straight.”
Klaus felt his lips purse of their own accord. Couldn’t Dorian leave it alone? He was not, not—
Dorian sighed and visibly tried to smile it better. “Darling, how about some coffee? Or I can ring for a cooked breakfast.”
Klaus grunted. “Tell them not to forget the potatoes this time.”