Arion was sitting very comfortably and content on the sofa, one leg crossed over his other knee, his polished shoe moving faintly while one hand flipped through the sketches balanced on his thigh and the other kept Dean very close.
Dean had been sitting beside him five minutes ago. Then Arion had adjusted the sketch folder. Then Dean had leaned closer to read the material notes. Then Arion's arm had settled around his waist with the silent confidence of a man who considered proximity a marital right.
Now Dean was nearly tucked against his side in the private consultation room of a jewelry maison that smelled like polished wood, expensive leather, rain, and impending financial crime.
"You have obscene tastes," Dean said with a huff, his purple eyes following the small legends listing impossibly rare materials beside each design.
"You are the Crown Prince Consort," Arion said without raising his eyes from the sketches. "Only the best for you."
Dean slowly turned his head.
