Taras' eyes flicked down for a moment, and he glanced at Ilarion's chest.
He could just see the border of one of the curving lines he'd inked on Lasha's smooth skin, under the finely-made robe. The contrast of blackest black on ivory was pleasing to his eye, as was the thought he was the one who had put it there, like a signature.
He took another sip of his drink, then set the glass aside and got out of his chair.
Taras stood over Lasha for a moment, looming over him, his eyes running over the whole of Lasha's form, appreciating him like artwork, taking in the fine details. The arches at the ends of his brows, the fullness of his lower lip, somehow slightly at odds with the sharp planes of the rest of his face. His delicate collarbone. His graceful fingers.
After a few seconds, Taras leaned forward, bracing his hand on the back of the chair.
"You've already given me everything, Lasha."
It occurred to Taras that perhaps that was not true. Perhaps it was that Lasha had given him everything that was his to give, and what remained was -
Taras stopped the thought before he could follow it.
Instead, he reached down and pulled at the sash of Ilarion's robe, undoing it. He pushed back the edges to expose the full design of the tattoo on Lasha's chest.
no subject
He could just see the border of one of the curving lines he'd inked on Lasha's smooth skin, under the finely-made robe. The contrast of blackest black on ivory was pleasing to his eye, as was the thought he was the one who had put it there, like a signature.
He took another sip of his drink, then set the glass aside and got out of his chair.
Taras stood over Lasha for a moment, looming over him, his eyes running over the whole of Lasha's form, appreciating him like artwork, taking in the fine details. The arches at the ends of his brows, the fullness of his lower lip, somehow slightly at odds with the sharp planes of the rest of his face. His delicate collarbone. His graceful fingers.
After a few seconds, Taras leaned forward, bracing his hand on the back of the chair.
"You've already given me everything, Lasha."
It occurred to Taras that perhaps that was not true. Perhaps it was that Lasha had given him everything that was his to give, and what remained was -
Taras stopped the thought before he could follow it.
Instead, he reached down and pulled at the sash of Ilarion's robe, undoing it. He pushed back the edges to expose the full design of the tattoo on Lasha's chest.
"That's better," he murmured.