Wesley was still hard in his hand, and he was looking at Sebastian a little uncertainly.
Sebastian ran his hand up Wesley’s shaft, slow and deliberate, and Wesley made a desperate noise in the back of his throat.
Not at all as unaffected as he pretended. Sebastian stroked him again. “Your turn to lie back and think of London.”
“It’s ‘think ofEngland.’”
Sebastian kissed him once, then pushed him over, using more magic this time. Wesley made that desperate, needy noise again as his back hit the mattress, and he looked up at Sebastian with flushed skin and eyes gone deeply blue.
Sebastian grabbed the waistband of the pajama pants that had been in his way. “What if I make you stop thinking?”
Wesley didn’t remember falling asleep. But here he was, waking up, with Sebastian curled behind him so their backs were pressed together.
Wesley didn’t sleep with men he fucked.
Except.
Except he’d already shared the bed with Sebastian; it was a necessity, after all, because even Wesley’s stone heart wasn’t going to abandon Sebastian to face his blood terrors alone. Besides, they were just lying next to each other. It wasn’t as if they were cuddling.
Even if, for all his perpetual chill, Sebastian was warm against him, steady breaths as calming as music.
Sebastian suddenly rolled over, pressing close to sling his arm over Wesley’s ribs. He rested his cheek against Wesley’s bare skin, right at the spot where his shoulder blade met the nape of his neck, and sighed contentedly.
Wesley’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” he said, even though it was obvious.
An indistinguishable mumble, blended Spanish and English, came against his skin.
Charming bastard.
Wesley could, of course, simply stand up. Sebastian wasn’t using his magic right now, and Wesley was bigger. He was hardly trapped.
He should extract himself and get on with the morning like a sensible fellow.
The new position had put Sebastian’s wrist and the hidden lion tattoo near Wesley’s face. He eyed the swirls of ink for a long moment, as Sebastian’s soft hair tickled his shoulder blade and his arm stayed pleasantly heavy over Wesley’s ribs.
And then instead of standing up, he reached for the tattooed wrist.
Sebastian made another soft noise, but he didn’t pull away as Wesley’s hand touched his skin. The tattoo drew attention to Sebastian’s exceptional arms, to muscles that were sleek but defined enough that even small movements showed them off. Wesley had always liked tattoos, from the ones he’d seen on other aristocrats to the glimpses he’d caught on soldiers. He’d never before thought of getting one himself, but Sebastian’s lion made him want one.
He traced the rampant lion’s outline. It really was an exceptional work of art, regal and fierce. Sebastian had seemed surprised that Wesley had seen it, and to be fair, itwaswell hidden, but it was right here, clear as day once one had spotted it.
“Wesley?”
Sebastian’s voice was quiet and tentative. And too late, Wesley realized Sebastian was no longer heavy against him, and the steady rhythm of his breaths had gone quiet. He was awake, and Wesley had been caught enjoying the moment, tracing Sebastian’s tattoo like a sap.
Are you actually cuddling me? Please tell me you’re not one of those pathetic, needy sots I’ll have to cosset like a pet.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. It was the sort of thing Wesley would have said to another lover, if they’d ever tried affection like this—although of course, they wouldn’t have, either because Wesley would have already thrown them out to sleep in the guest room, or because they were like Wesley in the first place, full of contempt for any softness.
Stop simpering over me, you sentimental prick.
I’m here to fuck you, not indulge you. Get off.
The words suggested themselves to Wesley, scorn that would push Sebastian away—even when every inch of Wesley’s skin was delighting in the feel of Sebastian close against him. When the stone in his chest felt a little less heavy with the weight of Sebastian’s arm around him. When the last thing he actually wanted to do was hurt Sebastian.
Wesley’s gaze drifted from the ink of the tattoo to the burn scars.
Wesley had always seen himself as the exception to the simpering masses. People would get angry over something he said, but that was because the world was full of weak, spineless prats too sensitive to handle the harsh realities that only Wesley was willing to voice aloud.
