Rowan's foot found him through the cloth.
Not a kick. Not a joke. A slow, knowing drag of toes along the hard line of Soren's cock until Soren's breath left him in a sound he had no right to make with two maids on the other side of a thin door.
"Rowan."
It came out like a warning and a plea at once.
Rowan only watched him, lip caught between his teeth, and pressed again—firmer, crueler in its patience. Soren's hands gripped the arms of the chair. His hips wanted to lift into it. He hated that they did.
Rowan unzipped himself without looking away.
The sound was too loud in the small room. Soren's eyes flicked to the door, then back, helpless, as Rowan drew himself out—already flushed, already wet at the tip. He spat into his palm. The spit landed thick. He wrapped his fist around himself and stroked once, slow, eyes locked on Soren's as if the doctor were the only thing in the kingdom worth looking at.
