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Summary
“Vintage blend, too precious to be had alone. What do you say?"
[...]
"I really shouldn't..." Pretty eyes flick from the bottle and back to him, weighing the options. "It's never just one glass with you."
Problem two: those eyes. Dexter is weak for them, pathetically so. Pastel blues framed by a fan of long, silver lashes, innocent when they catch his gaze during class. Not so innocent when they're alone like this; pressed next to one another on the tufted chesterfield in Dexter's office, sharing wine and heat. Close enough to share breath.
Lord Dexter tastes wine from Sylvester’s sweet lips.
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