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Summary
“Monsieur Chief Justice.” Wriothesley tips his head to the side, a smile tugging at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling and pulling at his scar. “Enjoying the party?”
Neuvillette makes a soft sound of dismissal. “Hardly.” He tips his head to the side, watching Wriothesley’s face, measuring the hunger in Wriothesley’s eyes—a hunger that churns in his own belly, that aches within him.
He is a private creature, but he wonders what it would be like to slip away from the gala into a shadowed alcove, to steal kisses from Wriothesley’s lips, to—
Neuvillette and Wriothesley slip away from a ballroom for some time together.
