Dean gasped when Arion's mouth closed over the side of his neck, teeth sinking down just enough to leave another darkening mark.
"This is getting ridiculous."
Arion did not appear concerned.
It had started perhaps five minutes earlier with Dean bent over the low table in their villa, one hand braced against the polished wood while he enlarged the latest map of Snake Island.
He had been concentrating.
That was his first mistake.
His second had been assuming the sound of the bathroom door opening was irrelevant.
Arion had emerged through a cloud of lingering steam with damp black hair pushed away from his forehead and a white towel wrapped low around his hips. Water still traced slowly down his chest and disappeared beneath the fabric.
Dean had looked once.
That had been enough.
Then he returned to the map because he possessed discipline.
Arion apparently did not.
