Sebastian huffed a laugh. “You’re teasing me.”
He had a small grin, his eyes still soft and shiny, and he didn’t seem at all offended by the implication men would want to sleep with him. Wesley reached for the bottle. “Nonsense, I never tease.”
Sebastian propped his hand in his chin. “Rubbish.”
“Are you imitating me?” Wesley said, delighted. “With that truly dreadful English accent? That’s very cute.”
“See?” said Sebastian. “More teasing.”
“You think so?” Wesley pulled Sebastian’s empty glass toward himself. “I’ve told you that you’re handsome half a dozen times today. Why would I beteasingwhen I call you cute?
Sebastian stilled. The slight shift in the air between them was a near-tangible thing as his gaze flitted over Wesley.
“To be clear, I don’t object to teasing in all circumstances,” Wesley went on, as he refilled Sebastian’s glass for him. “There’s something to be said for taking your time, drawing things out, reducing another person to helpless begging.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “Are we still talking about words?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Because this also sounds like something men would pay for.”
Wesley’s lips quirked up. “Paired with handcuffs, maybe,” he said, pushing the glass toward Sebastian’s hand.
Sebastian reached for it, and their fingers brushed, sending Wesley’s pulse up a beat. “I have never asked why you happened to have a convenient pair of handcuffs in your bedroom.”
“Because they come in very useful. Clearly.” Were they flirting now? Wesley certainly was, and he wanted to do it forever, as much as he wanted to reach across the table, grab Sebastian by the collar and kiss him senseless. “Of course, with your magic, you wouldn’t need to bother with anything as mundane as handcuffs. That’s why you’d be the one in demand, though I assume you’re plenty in demand without the magic.”
Sebastian’s tenor was always soft, and now it was like velvet. “Are we still talking about men?”
Wesley’s heart rate spiked yet again. “Would you like to be?”
Sebastian took a sip of whiskey and set the glass down. His gaze dropped to Wesley’s shoulders, his arms beneath his shirtsleeves. “What I like very much is that you say what you’re thinking. You are—what’s the idiom—refreshing, the breath of fresh air. Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking now, Lord Fine?”
Wesley’s title sounded so good in that accent. How much better would his name sound? He brought his own glass to his lips, judging the lip caught between Sebastian’s teeth, the flush to his face. Then he took the shot. “I’m wondering if you’ve ever kissed a man.”
Sebastian’s gaze dropped to his half-drunk whiskey, and he was quiet for a long moment.
“No,” he finally said.
Wesley’s heart sank, so much disappointment he felt it all the way to his stomach, a grief that shocked him in its profoundness, as if he’d just lost something far more than a single night.
That was it then. It didn’t matter how much Wesley wanted him; Sebastian would never be his.
Wesley quickly tossed back his entire whiskey with an unsteady hand, needing the kick more than he cared about appreciating the taste.
“But I’ve jerked one off.”
Wesley choked. Twenty-year-old whiskey seared his throat and shot like burning fire up into his nose. He coughed so hard he dropped his glass, which sloshed the last bit of liquid onto his lap as he bent over the table and tried to draw a breath.
“Lord Fine!” Sebastian had shot to his feet. “Are you—oh no.”
Oh no?
But Wesley’s body had turned to water. His liquid limbs abruptly couldn’t hold him and he tumbled from the chair. His face smacked the cottage’s stone floor a moment later.
“Ouch,” he muttered, as his body crumpled into a useless puddle.
“Lord Fine!”
