"I'm wet."
For half a second, the room stopped existing.
Arion didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply stared at Dean as if his brain had to re-run the sentence through every layer of restraint before it could accept it as real.
Dean, meanwhile, appeared pleased with himself, cheeks flushed, mouth soft, posture openly offering, as if he'd just announced the weather.
Arion inhaled and before Dean could draw his next breath, Arion moved.
One moment Dean was standing by the door; the next he was slammed back against it, the wood groaning under the impact. Arion's body was a furnace against his, all hard muscle and coiled fury. One hand shot out, bracing beside Dean's head, caging him in. The other tangled in Dean's hair, gripping tight enough to sting, forcing his head back to expose the long line of his throat.
