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Astarion lets his eyes slip closed, the words soaking into him. “Poor little Chosen,” he teases, studying the faint lines of the orb as they trickle down from his under eye. “He doesn’t know how to do anything but worship.”
“Let me show you. Please.”
“I like it when you beg.”
“Astarion.” His name is like honey, like chocolate, like wine. Something decadent, every syllable indulged. “I’ve already availed you of one of my talents this evening—“
“Cocky.”
“—and I am eager to avail you of another.”