Cherion's pulse was a frantic, visible thing against the pale hollow of his throat. Above him, Zarius was a stark, dark contrast against the tangled dark furs, his knuckles white where they gripped the bedding.
The only sound in the room was the wet, rhythmic slide of Zarius withdrawing his fingers from Cherion's heat. He didn't pull away far. He stayed on his knees, looming over the bed, his chest heaving under his fine linen shirt as if he'd just run for miles.
Cherion felt the weight of that gaze more than the biting chill of the drafty room. His thighs were doing that thing again, that fine, uncontrollable trembling that made him feel like he was slowly falling apart. The more Zarius watched him unravel, the worse it got. Another shiver, another sharp breath, another pulse of heat flooding through Cherion's veins.
Then, the stillness snapped.
